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THE HOUSEHOLD BOOK 

OF POETRY. 



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THE 



HOUSEHOLD BOOK 



OF 



POETRY. 



COLLECTED AND EDITED 



BY 



CHAELES A. DAISTA. 






■> ■) s 

o n 






1 O J , • .J ^' > 



, ^ > -1 * J • * 



J, » *> ' 



^ iV^^-TF EDITION— THOROUGHLY REVISED AND GREATLY ENLARGED. 



W^ii\l lUustratiflus. 



D. 



NEW YORK : 
APPLE-TON AND COMPANY. 

LONDON : 25 BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 

1903. 



tA 



-^1 



An 



•^ 







• ■ 



• • • 



•• • ••• 



COPYRIGHT BT 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1857, 186G, 1882. 



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••• ••. ••• -• 



fi 






PREFACE. 



Tins collection was first published in 1857, and has now for the second time 
been carefully revised and enlarged. Some two hundred poems, mostly modern, 
are now for the first time included in its pages ; and, while a number that were 
included in the previous editions have been omitted, it is not believed that any 
one which can justly be described as of the very highest cpiality will be missed. 

The public approbation of the work having been evinced, not only in the 
popular favor with which it has been received, but in the numerous other collec- 
tions which have been more or less modelled upon it, the original purpose and 
arrangement have been carefully preserved in preparing it in the present more 
comprehensive form. 

This purpose is, to compnse within the bounds of a single volume whatever 
is truly beautiful and admirable among the minor poems of the English lan- 
guage. In executing this design, it has been the constant endeavor of the editor 
to exercise a catholic as well as a severe taste, and to judge every piece upon 
its artistic merits solely, without regard to the name, nationality, or epoch of its 
author. An especial effort ha^ also been made to give every poem entire and 
unmutilated, as well as in the most authentic version which could be procured ; 
though the earliest edition of an author has sometimes been preferred to a later 
one, in which the alterations have not always seemed to be improvements. 

The arrangement of the book may be thought somewhat peculiar, but it is 
hoped that it will be found convenient for the reader, and not altogether devoid 



Ti PREFACE. 

of aesthetic congruitj. The editor also flatters himself that, in classifying so 
many immortal productions of genius according to their own ideas and motives, 
rather than according to their chronology, the nativity or sex of their authors, 
or any other merely external order, he has exhibited the incomparable richness 
of our language in this department of literature quite as successfully as if he 
had followed the methods more frequently adopted in such compilations. 

That every reader should find in these pages every one of his favorite 
poems, is perhaps too much to expect; but it is believed that, of those on whicb 
the unanimous vei'dict of the intelhgent has set the seal of indisputable great- 
ness, none of any epoch, whether of English, Scottish, Irish, or American origin, 
will be found wanting. With these remarks, this new edition of the work is 
submitted to the public, in the confident hope that, like its predecessors, it may 
be admitted as the familiar friend of many households, and become a daily com- 
panion both of young and old, 

Xovember, 1882. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



POEMS OP NATURE. 



PAGE 

Afar in the Desert Pringle 59 

Afternoon in February Longfellow 107 

Airs of Spring Careio 3 

Angler, The Chalkhill 13 

Angler's Trysting-Tree, The Stoddart 13 

Angler's Wish, The Walton 14 

Angling, "Verses in Praise of Wotton 14 

April Keble 5 

Arab to the Palm, The B. Taylor 56 



Arethusa Shelley 

Autumn Hood. 

Autumn Keats 

Autumn — A Dirge 



24 

92 

86 

Shelley 87 

"' ^ " as 

93 
52 
51 



Autumn Flowers Mrs. Southey 

Autumn's Sighing Read . . 

Belfry Pigeon, The ^Yill^s 

Birch Tree, The Loioell 

Birds of Killingworth, The Longfellow 21 

Black Cock, The Baillie 21 

Blood Horse, The Cornwall 61 

Blossoms, To Herrick 30 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind. . Shakespeare 105 

Bobolink. The Hill 15 

Bramble Flower, The Elliott 33 

Brier, The — Landor 33 

Broom Flower, The Mary Hoivitt 82 

Bugle Song Tennyson 96 

Chambered Nautilus, The O. TV". Hohnea 72 

Chiquita Bret Harte 

Chorus of Flowers Hunt 

Cloud, The Shelleif 

Come to these Scenes of Peace. . Bowles 

Coral Grove, The Percival 

Cornfields Mary Hoivitt.. . . 

Cricket, To a W. C. Bennett. . . 

Cricket, The Vincent Bourne. 

Cuckoo, The Locker 

Cuckoo, The Logan 

Cuckoo, The Wordsworth 



60 
35 
63 
44 
71 
83 
102 
102 
16 
16 

16 

Cuckoo and Nightingale. The. . . Chaucer 17 

Daffodils, To Wordsworth 80 

Daffodils Herrick 30 

Dandelion, The Loivell 3S 

Death of tlie Flowers Bryant 84 

Description of Spring SvtTey . 3 

Dirge for the Year Shelley 108 

Doubting Heart, A A. A. Procter 103 

73 
64 
6 
97 
97 



Drifting Read 

Drinking Anacreon 

Drop of Dew, A Marvell . . 

Evening Tennijson 

Evening, Ode to Collins. . . 



Evening Star, The Campbell 

Evening Wind, The Bryant 

Evening in the Alps Montgomery 

Fancy Keats 

Fidelity ' Wordsworth 

Flowers Longj'elloiv 

Fly, The Oldys 

Folding the Flocks Beaumont and Fletcher 

Forsaken Garden, A Sicinburne 

Fringed Gentian, The Bryant 

Garden, The Marvell 

Garden, The • Coidey 

Glory of Motion, The Tyrwhitt 

Grasshopper, The Lovelace 

Grasshopper, The Anacreon ( Cowley) — 

Grasshopper, The Anacreon {Cou'per) — 

Grasshopper and Cricket Hunt 

Grasshopper and Cricket Keats 

Grasshopper. Chirping of W. Harte 

Greenwood, The Boivles 

Grongar Hill I>yer 

Gulf- Weed Fenner 

Hampton Beach Whiffier 

Harvest Hutchinson 

Harvest Moon. The H. K. White 

Holly-Tree, The R. Southey 

Humble-Bee, The Emerson 

Hunter of the Prairies, The Bryant 

Hunter's Song, The ('orn wall 

Husbandman. The Sterling 

Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni. S. T. Coleridge 

Hymn to Pan Keats 

H\Tnn to the Flowers //. Smith 

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature . . . Shelley 

Influence of Natural Objects — Wordsworth 

Inscription in a Hcrmitace Wartoir 

Invocation to Rain in Summer. . W. C. Bennett 

Ivy Green, The Dickens 

Julv Clare 

Lark. The Hogg. 

Last Rose of Summer, The T. Moore 

Latter Rain Vn'y 

Lion and Giraffe, The Pringle 

Lion's Ride. The Freillgrath 

Little Beach-Bird, The Dana 

Little Streams Mary llowitt 

March Wordsworth 

May Ptrr'irnl 

Meadows /A rrtck 

Midges Dance aboon the Bum. . Taunahill 

Midnight Wind, The Mothtrwtll 

Midsummer Tivwbridge 



!Hi 
96 
98 
104 
81 
36 



96 
91 
82 
45 
46 
61 
53 
5:3 
54 

a 

54 
44 

94 

69 

72 

79 

100 

105 

55 

85 

86 

82 

110 

50 

37 

109 

109 

48 

62 

93 

43 

12 

86 

92 

58 

57 

70 

25 

5 

I 

81 

64 

la's 

43 



Vlll 



IXDEX OF TITLES. 



Moonrlse 

Morning 

Morning in London 

Mountain Daisy. A 

My Heart "e in the Highlands . . . 

Nature 

]^ight ie nigh Gone 

Night 

Night 

Nightingale, Address to the 

Nightingale, To the 

Nightingale. The 

Nightingale's Departure, The. . . 

Nightingale, Ode to the 

Night Song 

North Wind 

November 

Oasis of Sidi Khaled 

Owl 

Pan 

Peel Castle 

Philomena 

Primroses, with Morning Dew . . 

Question ." 

Rain on the Roof 

Redbreast. To the 

Retirement 

Return of Spring 

Reve du Midi 

Revisiting the Banks of the Wve. 

Rhodora. The ' . . 

Robin Redbreast 

Rose. The 

Sabbath Mommg 

Sand-Piper, The 

Sea, At 

Sea. The 

Seaweed 

Seneca Lake. To 

Sensitive Plant, The 

Skylark, The 

Sleep 

Small Celandine, The 

Snow-Storm, The 



PAGE 

E. Jones ^ 99 

Shakesiyeare 10 

Words iforth 9 

Burns 28 

Burns 85 

Very 31 

A. Montgomery 9 

Sheiky 99 

J. Blanco ^Mlite 101 

BarnHtld 38 

Milton 38 

S. T. Colendge 40 

C. Smith 42 

Keats 39 

Claudius 100 

Mulock-Craik 106 

H. Colendge 94 

Blunt 58 

Anonymous 102 

Beaumont and Fletcher 51 

Wordsworth 70 

M. Arnold 40 

Herrick 29 

Shelley : 27 

Kinney 62 

Drummond 107 

Cotton 49 

Bonsard 3 

Mrs.R. T. Cooke 50 

Wordsivorth 78 

Emerson 31 

Allinqham 80 

E. Waller 34 

Leyden 9 

Thaxter 71 

Trou'hmdge 68 

Cornwall 66 

Longfelloic 69 

Perchal 74 

SheUey 87 

Shelley 10 

Martin 103 

Wordsworth 28 

Emerson 107 



Song for September. A 

Song for the Seasons, A 

Song — On May Morning 

Song — Phoebus, arise 

Song to Mav 

Song — The' Lark 

Song — Pack Clouds away 

Song of the Brook 

Song of Spring 

Song — The Greenwood Tree . . . 

Song — The Owl 

Second Song — To the Same 

Sonnet — Autumn Moon 

Sonnet — To a Bird that haimted 
the Waters of Lake Laaken. . . 

Sonnet — Die down. O dismal day I 

Spice-Tree, The 

Spring 

, Spring 

\ Spring 

yStill Day in Autumn, A 

'i Storm Song 

Stormy Petrel. The 

Summer Longings 

Summer Months 

Tacking Ship 

Tiger, The 

Trailing Arbutus 

I Twilight 

Violet. The 

1 Violets 

\ Voice of the Grass 

Wanderins Wind. The 

' Waterfowl. To a 

Water I The Water 

, West Wind. Ode to the 

; Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. . . 

When the Hounds of Spring 

I Willow Song 

I Windy Night. The 

Woods in Winter 

Yarrow Unvisited 

Yarrow Visited 

. Yarrow Revisited 



PAGE 

Parsons 80 

Cornwall 108 

Milton 6 

Drummond 7 

Thurlow 8 

H. Coleridge 12 

Heyivood — '. 12 

Tennyson 26 

Ymtl 31 

Shakespeare 44 

Tennyson 101 

Tennyson 101 

Thnrhiv 100 • 

Thurlow 107 

David Gray 108 

Sterling 56 

Anacreon 6 

Beaumont and Fletcher 7 

Ten nyson 4 

S.H.Whitman 82 

B. Taylor 68 

Cornivall 67 

McCarthy 8 

Motherwell 9 

Mitchell 66 

Blake 57 

Mrs.B. T. Cooke 31 

Longfelloic 68 

Story 34 

Herrick 29 

Roberts 42 

Hemans 64 

Bryant 42 

Mothenvell 26 

Shelleij 65 

Cunningham 67 

Swinburne 4 

Hemans 52 

Bead 1(M 

Lonafelloiv 106 

Wordsworth 74 

Wordsicoj'th 75 

Wordsivorth 76 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Adopted Child, The Hemans 142 

Amoiitr the Beautiful Pictures. . . Alice Cary 151 

AiiireKs Wlii<per, The Lover 116 

Annie in the Graveyard Oilman 146 

Ba1)y Mav .' W. C. Bennett 113 

Babv's Shoes W. C. Bennett 150 

Ballad of the Tempest, A Fields 146 

Boyhood Allston 141 

Ca^-a Wanpy Moir 156 

Child and the Watcher, The Mrs. Browning 117 

Child Asleep Surville 118 

Child Praying, A WiUmott 148 

Children Landor 120 

Children in the Wood Anonymovs 138 

Children's Hour. The Lonqfellcno 144 

Choosing a Name M. Lamb 114 

Christening, The C. Lamb 114 

Cradle Song, A /. Watts 160 

Cuddle Doon 4. Anderson 115 

DanSe ^imonides 141 

Dead Doll, The Vandegrift 116 

Fairy Child. The Anster 120 

For Charlie's Sake Palmer 158 

Gambols of Children Darley 132 

Gipsy's Malison. The C. Lamb 118 

Her Eyes are Wild Wordsworth 141 

I Remember, I Remember Hr>od 144 

Introduction Blake 113 



Ladv Ann Bothwell's Lament . . . Anonymous 140 

Little Bell West wood 147 

Little Black Boy. The Blake 147 

Little Bov Blue Anonymous 126 

Little Red RidinsHood Landon 127 

Little Vagabond.' The Blake 1^33 

Loss and Gain Per?'y 158 

Lucy Wordsworth 148 

Lucv Gray Woi-d^worth 143 

Lullaby..* Tennyson 114 

Morning Glorv. The Mrs. Lowell 150 

Mother's Heart. The Xorton 

Mother's Hope. The Blanrhard . 

:Mother's Love, The Burbidge . . 

Mv Child Pierj)ont 



123 
122 
124 
157 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton . . T. Gray 137 

On the Death of an Infant Smits 149 

On the Picture of an Infant Leonidns 120 

Open Window. The Lonqf>llow 149 

Pel Laml). The Wordsworth 124 

Philip, mv King Mulrnk- Craik 117 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The B. Broicning 128 

Reconciliation. The Tennyson 16J> 

Saturdav Afternoon Willis 132 

Schoolmistress, The Shenstone 1*3 

She Came and Went Lowell 1-50 

Shepherd Bov. The Landon 126 

Three Sons, The Moultrie 151 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



IX 



PAGE 

Threnody Emerson 153 

To a Child Hood 119 

To a Child Sterling 122 

To a Child during Sickness Hunt 121 

To George M T. Miller 131 

To Hartley Coleridge Wordsworth 121 

ToJ.H Hunt 118 



PAGE 

To my Daughter Hood 126 

Under my Window Westivood 145 

Visit from St. Mcholas, A C. C. Moore 131 

We are Seven Wordsivorth 145 

Widow and Child, The Tennyson 159 

Willie Winkle W. MiUer 115 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



And doth not a Meeting like this 

Auld Lang Syne 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse 

Cape Cottage at Sunset 

Champagne Rose 

Christmas 

Come, Send round the Wine . . . 

Early Friendship 

Farewell ! But whenever 

Fill the Bumper Fair 

Fire of Drift-Wood, The 

From " In Memoriam.*' . . 

Good Time Coming. The 

Good Time Going, A 

How Stands the Glass Around . . 

Jaffar 

Journey Onwards, The 



Moore 174 

Burns 182 

Thackeray 176 

Glazier 169 

Kenyon 173 

Wither mS 

Moore 175 

De Vere 163 

Moore 175 

Moore 173 

Longfellow 168 

Tennyson 165 

Mackay 180 

Holmes 181 

Anonymous 174 

Hunt 168 

Moore 179 



Mahogany Tree, The 

Night at Sea 

Old Familiar Faces, The 

Passage, The 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

Saint Peray 

Sonnets 

Sparkling and Bright 

Stanzas to Augusta 

To Lady Annc'Hamilton 

To my Companions 

To Thomas Moore 

We have been Friends Together. 

What might be Done 

When shall we three meet again. 

Winter Wish, A 

Wreathe the Bowl 



Thackeray 181 

London 17S 

C. Lamb 170 

Uhland 168 

Clough 169 

Parsons 177 

S7iakes])eare 163 

Hoffman 173 

Byrqn 170 

W.E.Spencer 170 

Channing 181 

Byron 175 

Mrs. Norton 171 

Mackay 182 

Anonymous 163 

Messinger 171 

Moore 172 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Absence 

Address to a Lady 

Allan Percy 

Annabel Lee 

Annie Laurie 

Annoyer, The 

Ask me no more 

Atalanta's Race 

At the Church Gate 

Auld Robin Gray 

Au.x Italiens 

Awakening of Endymion, The. . 
Bailiffs Daughter of Islington, 

The 

Ballad — It was not in the Winter 

Ballad — Sigh on, sad heart 

Beauty Clear and Fair 

Bertha in the Lane 

Blest as the Immortal Gods 

Blissful Day, The 

Bonnie Leslie 

Bridal of Andalla, The 

Brook-side, The 

Burial of Love, The 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes. . . 

Castara 

Changes 

Cheat of Cupid, The 

Chronicle, The 

Come away. Death 

Come into the (iarden, Mand 

Coming throuirh the Rye 

Crabbed Age and Youth 

Courtin', The 

Day-dream, The 

Deceitf ulness of Love 

Discourse with Cupid 

Disdain Returned 

Divided 



Mi's. Kemble . . . 

Burns 

Mrs. Xorton . . . 

Poe 

Douglas 

Willis 

Ten nyson 

W. Morris 

Thackeray 

Lady Barnard. 

Lytton 

Landon 



281 
267 
322 
325 
267 
287 
300 
187 
275 
316 
327 
279 



Anonymous 206 

Hood 278 

Hood 294 

Beaumont and Fletcher 251 

Mrs. Browning 317 

Sappho 261 

Burns 344 

Burn^ 268 

Anonymous 221 

Milnes 277 

Bryant a32 

Burns 264 

Habington 2.53 

Lytton 32:3 

Anacreon 286 

Cowley 283 

Shakespeare 2o7 

Tennyson 273 

A nouymous 288 

shake-'<peare 284 

IjyiveU 291 

Tennyson 222 

Anonymous 286 

Jonson 249 

Careiv 2.54 

Ingelow 298 



Doris : A Pastoral 

Dream, The 

Earl o' Quarterdeck, The 

Epithalamion 

Epithalamium 

Eve of St. Agnes, The 

Evelyn Hope 

Excuse 

Fair Ines 

Fairest Thing in Mortal Eyes. . . 

Farewell to Nancy 

Fate 

Fireside, The 

First and Last 

Florence Vane 

Fly not yet 

Fly to the Desert 

Forsaken ^lerman. The 

Friar of Orders Gray, The 

Girl of Cadiz, The 

Glove, The 

Golden Weddins:. The 

Go where Glory Waits Thee 

Groomsman to his Mistress. The 

Health, A 

Hebrew Wedding, The 

Heliotrope 

Here "s a Health 

Hermit, The 

Highland Mary 

If I Desire with Pleasant Soncs. 
If thou wert by my Side, my Love 

I Give thee Eternity 

In a Year 

Indifference 

Irish Mi'lody. An 

Jeanie Morrison 

Jenny Kissed Me 

Jock of Hazeldean 



Munby 236 

Byron 296 

3[ac Donald 2t>2 

Spenser *34 

Brainard 3;i9 

Keats 217 

P. Broicning 325 

M. Arnold 321 

Hood 268 

Charles of Orleans .... 331 

Burns 265 

Anonymous 258 

Cotton 341 

Anonymous 30;3 

P. P. Cooke 32:3 

Moore 285 

Moore 2J)9 

M. Arnold 320 

Percy 208 

Byron 263 

R. Browning 210 

David Gray 344 

Moore 2»i9 

Parsons 282 

Pincknty 278 

Milman *33 

Anonymous 315 

Burns 265 

Goldsmith 212 

Burns 326 

Burbidge 287 

Hebtr iUO 

Drayton 245 

P. firowning :3*)1 

M. Arnold 322 

J. F. WaiUr 271 

MotherwtU 311 

Hunt 2;W 

Sir W. Scoff 2;i< 



ISDEX OF TITLES. 



John Anderson 

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer 

Lady Clare 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 

Laird o" Cockpen, The 

Laodamia 

Lass of Ballochmyle 

Lecture upon the Shadow, A 

Letters. The 

Let us Kiss and Part 

Lines to an Indian Air 

Lochinvar 

Locksley Hall 

Lord Lovel 

Love 

Love in the Valley 

Love is a Sickness 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. . 

Love Not 

Love not Me 

Love Song 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 

Lover to the Glow-worms 

Love's Philosophy 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 

Maiden's Choice, The 

Maid's Lament, The 

Mariana in the South 

Match. A 

Maud Muller 

Memorable Dessert, A 

Milk-Maid's Song, The 

Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer. . . 

:Miller's Daughter, The 

Minstrel's Song 

Misconceptions 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 

Molly Carew 

My Dear and Only Love 

My Heid is like to Rend, Willie. 

My Love 

My Love has Talked 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 

Nice Correspondent, A 

Night-Piece 

Nocturne 

Not Ours the Vows 

Nun, The 

Oh, that 'twere possible 

Old Story. The 

One Way of Love 

Ori)heus to Beasts 

Our Love shall Live 

Outlaw. The 

Pansrlory's Wooing Song 

Pliillida and Corydon 

Philouu'la's Ode 

Poet's Bridal-Day Song. The 

Poet's Song to his Wife 

Red, Red Rose, A 

Remembrance 

Riding Down 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. . . 

Rory O'More 

Rose and the Gauntlet. The 

Ruth 

Seaman's Happy Return, The. . 

Serenade 

Serenade 

Shall I Tell 

She is a Maid of Artless Grace. . 

She is far from the Land 

Shepherd's Resolution, The 

Songs : — A weary lot 

Ask me no more 

Day in melting purple. . 



PAGE 

Burns 344 

Anonymous 261 

Tennyson 236 

Mrs. Broicning 226 

Lady Nairne 214 

Wordsworth 329 

Burns 266 

Donne 247 

Tennyson 241 

Drayton 256 

Shelley 262 

Sir W. Scott 238 

Tennyson 303 

Anonymous 204 

Coleridqe 224 

Meredith 240 

Daniel 248 

Anonymous 250 

Mrs. Xorton a32 

Anonymous 258 

Darley 278 

Allingham 270 

Marvell 2.52 

SheUey 2^ 

Bijron 262 

Anonymous 284 

Landor 293 

Tennyson 302 

Swinbuime 251 

Whiftier 314 

Anonymous 288 

Marlowe 2.58 

Raleigh 2-59 

Tennyson 277 

Chatterfon 324 

R. Browning 294 

Herrick 252 

Lover 289 

Montrose 259 

Motherwell 312 

Lowell 276 

Tennyson a39 

Burns 342 

Locker 292 

Herrick 254 

T.B.Aldnch 284 

Barton 339 

Hunt 284 

Tennyson 30S 

Anonymous 2^37 

R. Browning 294 

Lovelace 309 

Spenser 242 

Sir W.Scott 2:39 

G. Fletcher 2.>3 

Breton 247 

Greene 2.56 

Cunningham 34:} 

Cornwall 343 

Burns 266 

Bronte 310 

Perry 281 

Anonymous 204 

Lover 288 

Sterling 313 

Hood 275 

Anonymous 216 

Hcjod 277 

Pinckney 277 

Brou'ue 2,50 

Gil Vicente 276 

Moore 326 

Wither 285 

Sir W.Scott 303 

Carew 256 

Brooks 282 



Songs : — Gather ye rose-buds. . . 

How delicious 

How should I your true- 
love know ? 

I bade thee stay 

I went to her 

Love me, if I live 

O ladv. thy lover is 

dead 

She- is not fair 

Sing the old song 

The heath this night. . . 

To thy lover 

Why so pale 

Song of Autumn. A 

Sonnets : — I know that all 

If it be true 

The doubt which ye 

misdeem 

The might of one fair 

face 

To one excusing his 

poverty 

To one' who would 

make a confession.. 

To Vittoria Colonna.. 



Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 
Spanish Lady's Love, The . . . 

Speak, Love 

Spinning- Wheel Song, The . . 
Stanzas — Oh, talk not to me 

Stanzas for ^lusic 

Summer Days 

Summer Reminiscence, A 

Sweet William's Farewell 

Sylvia 

Syr Cauline 



Take, oh take those lips away. J 

Tell me, my heart 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek . . 
The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' mine 

Then 

There's nae luck about the house 
Thou hast Vowed by thy Faith. . 

To 

To Althea— From Prison 

To Celia 

To LucastJi 

To Lucasta 

To Marv in Heaven 

Tomb, the 

Too Late 

Triumj)!! of Charis, The 

Truth's Integrity 

Waly. Waly 

Wanderer, The 

Watchinar 

We Parted in Silence 

Welcome, The 

Welcome, Welcome 

Were I but his Own Wife 

West Point 

When the Grass shall Cover me. 

Wlicn thou art near me 

Wlun we Two Parted 

White Rose. The ] 

Widow Machree 

Winifreda 

Wish. A 

You Meaner Beauties 

Young Beichan and Susie Pie. . . 
Zara's Ear-rings 



PAGE 

Herrick 333 

Campbell 282 

Shakespeare 257 

S. H. Whitman 293 

O' Shauyhnessy 295 

Cornwall 272 

MacDonald 326 

H. Coleridge 2.50 

De Vere 279 

Sir W.Scott 264 

Crashaw 255 

Suckling 285 

Rodd 293 

Drummond 245 

Michel Angelo 245 

Spenser .332 

Michel Angelo 262 

Blount 247 

Blunt 247 

Michel Angelo 245 

Shakespeare 242 

Sidney 244 

Mrs. Browning 246 

Anonymous 209 

Beaumont and Fletcher 251 

J.F. Waller 236 

By)on 292 

Byron 264 

Anonymous 274 

Shepherd 274 

Gay 215 

Darley 279 

Anonyfnous 195 

Shakespeare and J. 

Fletcher 2.52 

Lyttelton 249 

Motherwell 310 

Waugh 271 

Mrs. Cooke 319 

Ada7n 265 

Cunningham 267 

Shelley 263 

Lovelace 2.55 

Philostratus 249 

Lovelace 2,54 

Lovelace 2,55 

Burns 327 

Stanley 257 

Mulock-Craik 243 

Jonson 248 

Anonymous 206 

Anonymous 311 

Dobson 287 

Judson 342 

Crawford 300 

Davis 272 

Brcnvne 261 

Downing 272 

Strong 295 

Anonytnous 324 

Lady Scott 2,58 

Byron 300 

Conqreve and Somer- 

ville 248 

Lover 290 

A uonymous 333 

Rogers 340 

Wotton 2.52 

Anonymous 2*10 

Anonymous CC5 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Alfred the Harper 

American Fla^, The 

Ave Imperatrix 

Ballad of Agincourt, The 

Bannock-Burn 

Barbara Frietchie 

Bard, The 

Battle-Autumn, The 

Battle-Field, The 

Battle of the Baltic, The 

Bivouac of the Dead, The 

Black Regiment, The 

Blue and the Graj', The 

Boadicea 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 

Border Ballad 

Broadswords of Scotland, The., 

Bull-Fight of Gazul, The 

Cameronian's Dream, The 

Carmen Bellicosum 

Casabianca 

Cavalier's Song 

Charge of the Ligiit Brigade . . . 

Charlie is my Darling 

Chevy Chase 

Covenanter's Battle-Chant 

Destruction of Sennacherib 

Excelsior 

Fontenoy 

Fredericksburg 

Gallant Grahams, The 

(ieorge Nidiver 

Give a Rouse 

God Save the King 

Harae, Hame, Hame 

llarmodious and Aristogeiton. . . 
Harp that once through Tara's 

Halls 

Here's a Health to them that's 

awa' 

Herv6 Riel 

Hohenlinden 

Horatian Ode 

Horatius 

How they brought the good news 

Hymn 

Incident of the French Camp . . . 

Indian Death-Song 

Indian Death-Song 

It is Great for our Country to Die 



Sterling 

JJrake 

0. Wilde 

Drayton ". 

liiiriis 

Whitlier 

T. Gray 

Whit tier 

Bryant 

Campbell 

O'Hara 

Baker 

Finch 

Cowper 

Sir W. Scott 

Sir W. Scott 

Lockhart 

Anonymous 

Hyslop 

McMustcr 

Mrs. Uemans 

Motherwell 

Tennyson, 

Anoiijjnio'is 

Anonymous 

Motherwell 

Byron 

Lonrifellow , 

Daiis , 

T. B.Aldrich 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Ji. Browning , 

Anonymous 

Cunningham 

Callistratus - 



'AGE 

356 

391 

, 400 

, 363 

369 

, 395 

364 

, 393 

393 

, 403 

, 399 

, 396 

, 398 

355 

375 

379 

381 

, 358 

374 

, 389 

408 

366 

402 

376 

359 

373 

353 

420 

382 

394 

377 

416 

369 

384 

380 

354 



Moore 38;B 

Burns 377 

Ji. Browning 409 

Campbell 400 

Marrell 371 

Macaulay 347 

Ji. Browning 385 

Emerson 388 

R. Browning 400 

Hunter 387 

Schiller 375 

Percivcd 354 



Ivry 

Kenmnre's On and Awa' 

Knight's Leap. The 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

Last Word, The 

Leonidas 

Lochaber No More 

Lochiel's Warning 

Marco Bozzaris 

Memory of the Dead, The 

Monterey 

My Ain Countrec 

Naseby 

Ode — How Slee]) the Brave 

Ode — What Constitutes a State. 
Old-Fashioned Sta-Fisrht, An... 

Old Politician, The. . T. 

O Mother of a Mighty Race 

On a Bust of Dante 

On a Sermon against Glory .... 
On Planting Arts and Learning 

in America 

Our Fallen Heroes 

Our State 

Peace to the Slumberers 

Pericles and Aspasia 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Pilgrim, The 

Pilgrim Fathers. The 

Place \vhere Man should Die 

Prince Entrene 

Private of the Buffs. The 

I'elief of Liicknow', The 

Kol]-Call,The 

Sea-Fight, The 

Shan Van ^■ocht 

Sigiit in Camp, A 

Song 

Song of iVIarion's Men 

Song of the Cornish Men 

Song of the Greek Poet 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Star-spangled Banner, The 

Veteran and Recruit 

Vigil Strange I kept 

Wae's me for Prince Charlie — 

When Banners are Waving 

Ye (ientlemen of England 

Ye ^Mariners of £n<rland 



Macavlay 

Biiruf! 

Kingsley 

Mrs. Ilemans 
M. Arnold . . . 

Croiy 

Bani.<ay 

CanipfjfU 

Halleck 

1)1 grain 

Hoffman 

Cunningham. 
Maraulay . . . . 

Collins 

-Sir ir. Jones. 
W. Whitman. 

Buchanan 

Bryant 

Pardons 

Akenside 



•AGE 

, 367 

. 377 

, 386 

. 387 

. 419 

. 355 

. 376 

. 378 

412 

. 413 

. 392 

. 381 

369 

. 384 

. 418 

. 404 

. 415 

. 391 

. 418 

. 419 



Berkeley 

Griffith 

Whittier 

Mcore 

Cioly 

Sir W. Scott.. 

Bunyan 

Pier])ont 

Barry 

Anonymous . . 

Boyle 

Lowell 

Shepherd 

Anonymous . . 
Anonymous . . 
W. Whitman. 

Mcore 

Bryant 

Hawker 

Byron 

X ilton 

Wordswcrth . 

A'ty 

Hazewell 

W. Whitman. 

Glen 

Anonytnorts .. 
M. Parker. . . . 
Campbell 



388 
397 
392 
m\ 
356 
379 
420 
388 
419 
366 
415 
414 
394 
405 
385 
397 
383 
389 
3K3 
411 
372 
417 

m\ 

384 
397 
380 
373 
407 
.C3 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Ballad 

Rattle of Limerick, The 

Clam-Soup 

Cologne ' ' . . ' 

Devil's Thoughts, The 

Dragon of Wantley, The 

Eleiry on a Mad Dog 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 

Essence of Opera 

Faithless Nelly Gray 

Faithless Sally Brown 

Farewell to Tobacco, A 

Flight of the Duchess, The 

BViend of Humanity and Knife- 

Grinder 

Good Ale 



Leland 4a3 

Thackeray 474 

Crofut 462 

S. ^r. Coleridge 460 

S. T. Coleridge 460 

Anonymous 427 

Goldsmith 432 

Goldsmith 455 

Aiwnymous 463 

Hood 465 

Hood 466 

C. Lamb 464 

li. Browning 441 

Canning 461 

Still 428 



Groves of Blarnev, The 

Hag. The ' 

Hans Breitmann's Partv 

Heir of Linne, The 

Hyi)Ochondriacus 

Irishman. The 

John Gilpin. Diverting History of 

Jovial Beutrar. The 

King John and the Abbot of 

Canterburv 

Ladvat Sea." The 

Malhrouck 

>Iass!ure of the Macpherson . . . 

Midges 

.Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 
Molony's Lament 



Milliken 472 

Htrrick 461 

Leland 48;J 

Anonymous 42^1 

C. Lamb 4*53 

Maginn 473 

Cowpir 452 

^•1 uonyn ous 429 

A noiiymous 426 

Ho(fd 467 

Anonymous 430 

Ayfoun 456 

Lytton 477 

Thackeray 476 

Thackeray 475 



X 



ISDEX OF TITLES. 



John Anderson 

Kulnasatz, my Reindeer 

Lady Clare 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 

Laird o" Cockpen, The 

Laodamia 

Lass of Ballochmyle 

Lecture upon the Shadow, A 

Letters. The 

Let us Kiss and Part 

Lines to an Indian Air 

Lochinvar 

Locksiey Hall 

Lord Lovel 

Love 

Love in the Valley 

Love is a Sickness 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. . 

Love Not 

Love not Me 

Liove Song 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 

Lover to the Glow-worms 

Love's Philosophy 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 

Maiden's Choice, The 

Maid's Lament, The 

Mariana in the South 

Match. A 

Maud Muller 

Memorable Dessert. A 

Milk-Maid's Son^, The 

Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer. . . 

Miller's Daughter, The 

Minstrel's Song 

Misconceptions 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 

Molly Carew 

My Dear and Only Love 

My Heid is like to Rend, Willie. 

My Love 

My Love has Talked 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 

Nice Correspondent, A 

Night-Piece 

Nocturne 

Not Ours the Vows 

Nun, The 

Oh. that 'twere possible 

Old Story. The 

One Way of Love 

Orpheus to Beasts 

Our Love shall Live 

Outlaw. The 

Pansrlory's Wooin" Song 

Phillida and Corydon 

Philomela's Ode 

Poet's P.ridal-Day Song, The. . . . 
Poet's Song to his Wife 



Red. HedRose, A 

Remembrance 

Riding Down 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. . . 

Rory O'More 

Rose and the Gauntlet. The 

Ruth 

Seaman's Happy Return, The. . 

Serenade 

Serenade 

Shall I Tell 

She is a Maid of Artless Grace. . 

She is far from the Land 

Shepherd's Resolution, The 

Sougs : — A \\eary lot 

Ask me no more 

Day in melting purple. . 



PAGE 

Burns ^44 

Anonymous 261 

Tennyson 236 

Mrs. Browning 226 

Lady Nairne 214 

Wordsworth 329 

Burns 266 

Donne 247 

Tennyson 241 

Drayton 256 

Shelley 262 

Sir W. Scott 238 

Tennyson 303 

Anonymous 204 

Coleridqe 224 

Meredith 240 

Daniel 248 

Anonymous 250 

Mrs. Norton a32 

Anonymous 258 

Darky 278 

Allingha7n 270 

Marvell 252 

Shelley 26:3 

Byron 262 

Anonymous 284 

Landor 293 

Tennyson 302 

Swinburne 251 

Whittier 314 

Anonymous 288 

Marlorve 2.58 

Raleigh 259 

Tennyson 277 

Chatterton 324 

R. Browning 294 

Herrick 252 

Lover 289 

Montrose 259 

Motherwell 312 

Lmvell 270 

Tennyson -339 

Burns 342 

Locker 292 

HerHck 254 

T.B.Aldnch 284 

Barton 339 

Hunt 284 

Tennyson 308 

Anonymous 2;i7 

R. Browning 294 

Lovelace 309 

Spenser 242 

Sir W. Scott 239 

G. Fletclier 2.5:i 

Breton 247 

Greene 2.56 

Cunningham 34;J 

CormvdM 343 

Burns 266 

Bronte 310 

Perry 281 

Anonymous 204 

Lover 288 

Sterling 313 

Hood 275 

Anonymous 216 

Hood 277 

Piiickney 277 

Browne 2.50 

Gil Vicente 276 

Moore 32<) 

Wither 285 

Sir W.Scott *)3 

Carew 2.56 

Brooks 282 



Songs : — Gather ye rose-buds. . . 

How delicious 

Ho\v should I your true- 
love know ? 

I bade thee stay 

I went to her 

Love me. if I live 

O lady, thy lover is 

dead 

She is not fair 

Sing the old song 

The heath this night. . . 

To thy lover 

Why so pale 

Song of Autumn. A 

Sonnets : — I know that all 

If it be true 

The doubt which ye 

misdeem 

The might of one fair 

face 

To one excusing his 

poverty 

To one who would 

make a confession.. 

To Vittoria Colonna.. 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Sonnets from the Portuguese . . . 

Spanish Lady's Love, The 

Speak. Love 

Spinning- Wheel Song, The 

Stanzas — Oh. talk not to me . . . 

Stanzas for Music 

Summer Days 

Summer Reminiscence, A 

Sweet William's Farewell 

Sylvia 

Syr Cauline 



Take, oh take those lips away. - 

Tell me, my heart 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek. . 
The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' mine 

Then 

There's nae luck about the house 
Thou hast Vowed by thy Faith. . 

To 

To Althea— From Prison 

To Celia 

To Lucasta 

To Lucasta 

To Marv in Heaven 

Tomb, the 

Too Late 

Triumi)h of Charis, The 

Truth's Integrity 

Waly. Waly '. 

Wanderer, The 

Watching 

We Parted in Silence 

Welcome, The 

Welcome. Welcome 

Were I but his Own Wife 

West Point 

When the Grass shall Cover me. 

When thou art near me 

When we Two Parted 

White Rose. The -j 

Widow Machree 

Winifreda 

Wish. A 

You Meaner Beauties 

Young Beichan and Susie Pie. . . 
Zara's Ear-rings 



PAGE 

Herrick 3*3 

Campbell 282 

Shakesjieare 257 

-S'. //. Whitman 293 

O'Shaughnessy 295 

Cornwall 272 

MacDonald 326 

H. Coleridge 2.50 

De Vere 279 

Sir W.Scott 264 

Crashaw 255 

Suckling 285 

Rodd 293 

Drummond 245 

Michel Angelo 245 

Spenser 332 

Michel Angelo 262 

Blount 247 

Blunt 247 

Michel Angelo 245 

Shakespeare 242 

Sidney 244 

Mrs. Brorcning 246 

Anonymous 209 

Beaumont and Fletcher 251 

J. F. Waller 236 

Byron 292 

Byron 264 

Anonymous 274 

Shepherd 274 

Gay 215 

Darley 279 

Anonymous 195 

Shakespeare and J. 

Fletcher 2.52 

Lyftelton 249 

Motherwell 310 

Waugh 271 

Mrs. Cooke 319 

Adam 265 

Cunninghofn 267 

Shelley 263 

Lovelace 2.55 

Philostratus 249 

Lovelace 2.54 

Lovelace 2,55 

Burns 327 

Stanley 257 

M'dock-Craik 243 

Jonson 248 

Anonymous 206 

Anonymous 311 

Dobson 287 

Judson 342 

Craicford 300 

Davis 272 

Broivne 261 

JJowning 272 

Strong 295 

Anonymous 324 

Lady Scott 2.58 

Byron 300 

Conqreve and Somer- 

viUe 248 

Lover 290 

A nonymous 333 

Rogers 340 

Wotton 2.52 

Anonymous 200 

Anonymous CC5 



POEMS OF AMBITIO]^. 



Alfred the Harper 

American Fla^, The 

Ave Imperatrix 

Ballad of Agincourt, The 

Bannock-Burn 

Barbara Frietchie 

Bard, The 

Battle- Autumn. The 

Battle-Field, The 

Battle of the Baltic. The 

Bivouac of the Dead, The 

Black Regiment, The 

Blue and the Gray, The 

Boadicea 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 

Border Ballad 

Broadswords of Scotland, The.. 

Bull-Fight of Gazul, The 

Canieroliian"s Dream, The 

Carmen Bellicosum 

Casabianca 

Cavalier's Song 

Charge of the Light Brigade . . . 

Charlie is my Darling 

Chevy Chase 

Covenanter's Battle-Chant 

Destruction of Sennacherib 

Excelsior 

Fontenoy 

Fredericksburg 

Gallant Grahams, The 

(ieorge Nidiver 

Give a Rouse 

God Save the King 

Harae, Hame, Hame 

llarmodious and Aristogeiton. . . 
Harp that once through Tara"s 

Halls 

Here's a Health to them that's 

awa' 

Herv6 Riel 

Hohenlinden 

Horatian Ode 

Horatius 

How they brought the good news 

Hymn 

Incident of tiie French Camp . . . 

Indian Death-Song 

Indian Death-Song 

It is Great for our Country to Die 



Sterling. 
Drake... 



O. Wilde 

Drayton '. . 

Burns 

Whit tier 

T. Gray 

Whit tier 

Bryant 

Campbell 

O'Hara 

Boker 

Finch 

Cowper 

Sir W. Scott . . 
Sir W. Scott. . . 

Lockhart 

Anonymous . .. 

Jlyslop 

McMa.9ter 

Mrs. Hemans . 

Motherwell 

Tenny.^oa 

Anonymous . . . 
Arionymoiis . . . 

Motherwell 

Byron 

Loncifellow 

Davis 

T. B.Aldnch. 
Anonymous . . . 
Anonymous . . . 
It. Browning.. 
Anonymous . . . 
Cunningham.. 
Callistratus . . . 



'AGE 

356 
391 

. 400 

, 363 
369 
395 
364 

, 393 
393 
403 
399 

, 396 
398 
355 
375 
379 
:i81 

, 358 
374 

, 389 
408 
366 
402 
376 
359 
373 
3.53 
420 
382 
394 
377 
416 
369 
384 
380 
354 



Moore 383 

Burns 377 

Ji. Browning 409 

Campbell 400 

Marrell 371 

Macaulay ;347 

/.'. Browning 385 

Emerson 388 

R. Browning 400 

Hunter 387 

Schiller 375 

Perciial 3M 



I^■ry 

Kenmure's On and Awa' 

Knight's Leap. The 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

Last Word. The 

Leonidas 

Lochaber No More 

Lochiel's Warning 

Marco Bozzaris 

Memory of the Dead, The 

Monterey 

My Ain Countrec 

>'aseb}^ 

Ode — How Sice]) the Brave 

Ode — What Constitutes a State. 
Old-Fashioned Sta-Fisht, An... 

Old Politician. The. . T 

O Mother of a Mighty Race 

On a Bust of Dante 

On a Sermon against Glory .... 
On Planting Arts and Learning 

in America 

Our Fallen Heroes 

Our State 

Peace to the Slumberers 

Pericles and Aspasia 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Pilgrim. The 

Pilgrim Fathers. The 

Place where Man should Die 

Prince Euirene 

Private of the Buffs. The 

Iklief of Liicknow, The 

Roll-Call,The 

Sca-Fight, The 

Shan Van Vocht 

Sight in Camp. A 

Song 

Song of Clarion's Men 

Song of the Cornish Men 

Song of the Greek Poet 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Star-spangled Banner, The 

Veteran and Recruit 

A'igil Strange I kept 

Wae's me for Prince Charlie 

When Banners are Waving 

Ye Gentlemen of England 

Ye ]\lariners of England 



Mocavlay 

B"rn.<! 

King-slty 

Mrs. Ilemans 
M. Arnold ... 

C)oty 

Bam-my 

Campbt-U 

Halleck 

Ingram 

Hoffman 

Cunningham. 

Macaulay 

Collins 

Sir W. Jones. 
W. Whitman. 

Buchanan 

Bryant 

Pari^ons 

Akenside 



r.' 



AGE 

367 
377 
386 
387 
419 
355 
376 
378 
412 
413 
392 
381 
369 
384 
418 
404 
415 
391 
418 
419 



Berkeley 

Griffith .... 

Whit tier 

Mcore 

Cioly 

Sir W. Scott. 

Bunyan 

Pietpont 

Barry , 

Anonymous. . 

Doyle 

Lowell , 

Shepherd 

Anonymous. , 
Anonytnous . . 
W. Whitman. 

Mcore 

Bryant 

Hawker 

By I on 

Ji ilton 

Wordsworth . 

Kty 

Haze ice U 

W. Whitman. 

Glen 

Anonymous .. 
M. Parktr.... 
Cumpbtll 



388 
397 
392 
384 
a56 
379 
420 
388 
419 
366 
415 
414 
394 
405 
385 
397 
383 
389 
38:3 
411 
372 
417 
390 
384 
397 
380 
373 
407 
-:C3 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Ballad 

Battle of Limerick, The 

Clam-Soup 

Cologne ' 

Devil's Thoughts, The .... . . 

Dragon of Wantley, The 

Ele-ry on a Mad Dog 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 

Essence of Opera 

Faithless Xelly Gray 

Faithless Sally Brown 

Farewell to Tobacco, A 

Flight of the Duchess, The 

Friend of Humanity and Knife- 

Grinder 

Good Ale 



Inland 4a3 

Thackeray 474 

Crofut 462 

S. ^r. Cohndge 460 

5. T. Coleridge 460 

A)wnymous 427 

Gold-vnith 432 

Goldsmith 455 

Anonymous 4r)3 

Hood 465 

Hood 406 

C. Lamb 464 

P. Browning 441 

Canning 461 

Still 428 



Groves of Blarncv, The Milliken 472 

Hair. The " Hrrick 461 

Hans Breitmann's Party Leland 4K3 

Heir of Liime, The Anonymous 42:? 

Hypochondriacus C. Lamb 4t>3 

Irishman. The Maginn 473 

John (Jilpin, Diverting History of Cow/kr 452 

Jovial Beegar. The Anonyn ous 429 

King John and the Abbot of 

Canterburv Anonymous 426 

Ladv at Sea." The Hood 467 

Malbrouck Inonymous 430 

Massacre of tlie Macpherson . . . Aytoun 45t> 

Midges Lytton 477 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball Thackeray 476 

Molony's Lament Thackeray . . . ' * ■ 



x:i 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Old unci Yoinii Courtier, The. . . 

Old Time andl 

Ori^'in of Ireland, The 

Plain Language from Truthful 

James 

Rape of the Lock, The 

Receipt for Salad, A 

St. Anthony's Sermon to the 

Fishes... ". 

St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear. 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman 

Sir Sidney Smith 



PAGE 

Anonymous 431 

Lemon 483 

Anonymous 470 

B.HarU 482 

Pojye 433 

S. Smith 463 

Anonymous 478 

Mo.ginn 472 

H. Bennett 471 

G. Dibdin 456 



Song of One Eleven Tears in 

Prison 

Take thy Old Cloake about Thee 

Tam o" Shanter 

True-hearted Ben 

Twenty-eight and Twenty -nine. . 

Vicar, ThcT. 

Vicar of Bray. The 

War-Song of Dinas Va\\T 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks 

White Squall, The 

Willie's Visit to Melville Castle. 



PAGE 

Canning 462 

Anonymous 429 

Burns 457 

Anonymous 470 

Praed 481 

Praed 480 

Anonymous 479 

Peacock 457 

Loicell 484 

Thackeray 468 

Anonymous 455 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Beth Gelert 

Bonnie George Campbell 

Braes of Yarrow, The 

Break. Break, Break 

Bridal Dirge 

Bridal Sonjr and Dirge 

Bridii;e of Sighs. The 

Burial of Sir John ^loort; 

Casile by the Sea, The 

Coronach 

Cruel Sister, The 

Daedalus 

Days that are no more. The 

Death-Bed, The 

Death-Bed, A 

Dirge 

Dirge..' 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge 

Dirge for a Soldier 

Dirsje for a Young Girl 

Dirge in Cymbeline 

Dirge of Imogen 

Dirue of Jephthah's Daughter. . . 

Douu'las Tragedy. Tiie. . T 

Dowie Dens of Yarrow, The .... 

Drake, on the Death of 

Dream-land 

Dream of Eugene Aram, The . . . 

Edward, Edward 

Eiciry on (;a;)tain Henderson. . . . 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 

Ex<'qiiv. The 

Fair Helen 

Fishermen. The 

Fishing Sonir 

Funeral Hymn. A 

Funeral of Charles I 

(iani' were but the Winter Cauld 

Hester 

Hood, tn the Memory of 

How 's my 15oy y 

Hunter's Vision, The 

Ichabf>d 

InchcajH! Rock. The 

In Iii;ineml»rance of the Hon. 

Kdward Kniest Villiers 

Ipliiu'enia and Ayamemnon 

Kinir of Denmark's Ride, The.. . 
Lament, A 



Spencer 517 

Anonymous 496 

Hamillon 489 

Tennyson 566 

L'oruwall 5.53 

Beddoes 552 

Hood 536 

Wolfe 55!) 

ridand 563 

Sir W.Scott 548 

Anonymous 493 

Sterling 508 

Tennyson 566 

Hood 541 

J. Aldrich 541 

Te)i nyson 549 

Tl'. S. Roscoe 551 

Beddoes 552 

Eastman 552 

Mrs. Hemans 553 

Boker 5.58 

Fields 553 

Collins 551 

Shakespeare 550 

Herrick 550 

Anonymous 491 

Anonymous 488 

Halleck 559 

C. G. Rossetti 562 

Hood 524 

A/ionymous 494 

B'n'UM .545 

Ben Joiison 554 

King 547 

Anonymous 497 

Ktngsley 512 

Mrs. Cooke 565 

Mallelt 546 

Bowles 556 

Cunninrfham 548 

C. Lanib 541 

Simmons 558 

Dof/eU 523 

Bryant 528 

Whiftier 5.54 

Southev 620 

//. Tayloi' 544 

Landor 509 

Mrs. Norton 517 

Sluflley 561 



Lament 

Lament of the Border Widow. . . 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant. . . 

Lamentation for Celin 

Last Journey, The 

Lord Rjindal 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 

Lost Leader, The 

Lycidas 

Mariner's Dream, The 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

May Queen. The 

Mother and Poet 

Mother's Last Song, The 

Xymph Comi)laining for the 

Death of her Fawn 

Oh ! Breathe not his Name 

Oh : Snatched away 

Old Mirror, The...." 

On the Loss of the Royal George 

Over the Ran<:re 

Pauper's Death-Bed. The 

Pauper's Drive. The 

Peace ! What do Tears Avail ?. . 

Phantom. Tlie 

Poet's Epitaph. A 

Prisoner of Chillon. The 

Pi'oud Maisie is in the Wood 

Rjire Willy Drowned in Yarrow. . 

Sea, The 

She wore a wreath of roses 

Sir Patrick Spens 

Snow-Storm. A 

Softly Woo away her Breath 

Sohrab and Rustum 

Solitude 

Song — O Mary, go 

Song — Yarrow Stream 

Song of the Shirt, The 

Song of the Silent Land 

The Moon was A- Waning 

Tom Bowling 

Tommy "s Dead 

Twa Brothers. The 

Twa Corl)ies, The 

Very Mournful Ballad, A 

Voiceless. The 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The 

When I Beneath 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The — 
Young Airly 



Shelley 562 

Anonymous 497 

Lady Dvffenn 535 

Anonymous 509 

Mrs. Southey 539 

Anonymous 492 

Campbell 518 

Brouning 555 

Milton 542 

Dimond 522 

Burns 497 

Tennyson 529 

Mrs. Browning 563 

Cof^nwall 537 

Marvell 534 

Moore 549 

Byron 548 

<S. H. Whitman 565 

Coicper 519 

Mills 561 

Mrs. Southey 539 

Noel 540 

Corn ivall 541 

B. Taylor 554 

Elliott 560 

Byron 512 

Sir W. Scott 555 

Anonymous 491 

P. H. Stoddard 517 

Bayly 535 

Ationytnous 487 

Eastman 527 

Cormcall 528 

M. Arnold 499 

//. K. White 561 

Kingsley 498 

Logan 491 

Hood 538 

Salis 5:39 

Hogg 523 

Dibdin 524 

Dobell 532 

Anonymous. . 495 

Anonymous 496 

Anonymous 510 

Holmes 562 

lAmcffellon' 557 

Mother well 560 

Longfellow 520 

Anonymous 520 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



xni 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Ariel's Songs 

Comus 

Culprit Fay, The 

Fairies, The 

Fairies' Farewell, The 

Fairies of the Caldon Low, The 

Fairies' Song, The 

Fairy Queen, The 

Fairy Song 

Green Gnome, The 

Hylas 

Kilmeny 

King Arthur's Death 

KuWa Khan 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 

Lady of Sliallott, The 



PAGE 

Shakespeare 595 

Milton 599 

Drake 585 

Allingham 592 

Corbett 593 

Mary Howitt 583 

Anonymous 578 

Anonymous 577 

Keats 578 

Buchanan 594 

B. Taylor 610 

Hogrj 579 

Anonymous 5ti9 

S. T. Colendye 614 

Keats 579 

Tennyson 597 



Lorelei, The 

Merry P^ranks of Robin Good- 
Fellow^ 

Morte d' Arthur 

Oh ! Where do Fairies Hide 

Raven, The 

Rhoecus 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner 

Song — A Lake and a Fairy-Boat 

Song — Hear, Sweet Spirit 

Song of Fairies 

Song of the Fairy 

Thomas the Rhymer 

Water Fay, The 

Water Lady, The 

Wee, Wee Man, The 



PAGE 

Heine 595 

Anonymous 576 

Ttn nyson 571 

Bayly 584 

Poe 623 

Loivell 612 

-S'. T. Coleridge 615 

Hood 596 

S. T. Coleridge 595 

Randolph 579 

Shakespeare 578 

Anonymous 574 

Heine 596 

Hood f. 596 

Anonymous 575 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Abou Ben Adhem 

Address to the Mummy 

Age of Wisdom, The 

Alexander's Feast 

All Earthly Joy Returns 

Pain 

Allegro, L' 

All 's Well ! 

Anacreon, On 

Anchorsmiths, The 

Angel in the House, An 

An Old Poet to Sleep 

Arranmore 

Arsenal at Springfield, The. 

Bacchanalia 

Bacchus , 

Balder 

Barclay of Urv 

Battle of Blenheim, The 

Be Patient , 

Bells, The 

Bells of Shandon, The 

Brahma 

Bucket, The 

Burial of the Poet , 

Burns 

Burns, On the Death of 

Canadian Boat-Song 

Chapman's Homer, On 

Charade 

Chartres Cathedral, In 

Contented Mind, A 

Contemplate all this Work. . 
Cotter's Saturday Night, The 

Cowper's Grave. 

Crowded Street. The 

Cry from the Shore, A 

Day of the Lord, The 

Death Carol 

Death of the Virtuous 

Death's Final Conquest 

Dejection— An Ode 

Delight in Disorder 

Deserted Villasre. The 

Despondency Rebuked 

EacK and All 

Egyptian Serenade 

Ereffy 



m 



gy written in a Country 
!hurcliyard 



Hunt 642 

H. Smith 639 

Thackeray 729 

Dryden 666 

Dunbar 629 

Mlton 698 

Butler 762 

Antipater 678 

Dibdin 645 

Hunt 769 

Landor 765 

Moore 744 

Longfellow 650 

M. Arnold 746 

Emerson 719 

Anonymous 638 

Whittier 635 

E. Southey 649 

Anonymous 748 

Poe 665 

Mahony 664 

Emerson 714 

Woodworth 652 

Longfellow 774 

Whittier 691 

Poscoe 689 

Moore 673 

Keats 692 

Praed 693 

Podd 777 

Sylvester 702 

Tennyson 744 

Burns 753 

Mrs. Browning 685 

Bryan f 717 

Hutchinson 648 

Kingsiey 747 

W. Whitman 786 

Mrs. Bai-bauld 782 

Shirley 763 

Coleridge 726 

Herrick 674 

Goldsmith 654 

Clough 652 

Emerson 749 

Curtis 674 



T. Gray 784 



End of the Play, The 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 

Fable 

Fisher's Cottage. The 

Flowers without Fruit 

Footsteps of Angels 

Forging of the Anchor 

Foulita^n, The 

Garden of Love, The 

Good-Bye 

Good Great Man, The 

Grave of a Poetess 

Great are the Myths 

Greenwood Shrift, The 

Guy 

Hallowed Ground 

Happy Life, The 

Harniosan 

Hebe 

Hence, all you Vain Delights 

Hemiione 

Hermit, The 

He who Died at Azan 

Honest Poverty 

Human Frailty 

Hymn to Litellectual Beauty 

Hymn of the Churchyard 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray 

If that were True 

Influence of Music 

In Pace 

Is it Come? 

King Robert of Sicily 

Last Leaf, The 

Life 

Life 

Life 

Life and Death 

Light of Stars. The 

Lines on a Skeleton 

Lines Written in Richmond 

C'liurchvard 

Lords of Thulc. The 

Losses 

Lost Clnirch, The 

Lotus-Eaters, The 

Lye. The 

Afacanlav. To 

Man . . . .■ 



Thackeray 735 

Milton 678 

Emerson 726 

Htine 641 

A'e wman 728 

Longfellow 773 

Fetguson 645 

Wordsivorth 716 

Blake 7.52 

Emerson 717 

6'. T. Coleridge 742 

T. Miller 655 

W. Whitman 634 

P. and C. Southey 766 

Emerson 718 

Campbell 755 

Wotton 756 

P. C. Trench 637 

Lowell 674 

Beaumont and Fit tfher 726 

( 'orn wall 676 

Beattie 763 

E. Arnold 783 

Burns 744 

Cowper 741 

Shelley 709 

Bethune 777 

O'Keefe 729 

F. Brown 745 

Shakespeare (i69 

Po/>es 730 

F. Brown 745 

Longfellow 769 

Holmes 732 

Barbauld 782 

Cornwall 769 

King 772 

^-1 nonymous 766 

Longfeltoiv 760 

Anonymous 1 16 

Knowlrs 778 

Anonymous 637 

F. Broicn 740 

Vhland 749 

Ten n t/son 631 

Paleigh 703 

Landor 694 

Herlterf 757 



XIV 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Man's Mortality 

Means to Attain Happy Life — 
Meditations of a Hindoo Prince. 

Memory 

Minstrel, The 

Mortality 

Mother Margery 

Music 

Mutability 

My Days among the Dead 

My Miiul to me a Kingdom is. . . 

Mvstic Trumpeter, The 

Xight 

No More 

Nothing New under the Sun 

<Jile — Bards of Passion 

Ode— Intimations of Immortality 

Oie on a Grecian Urn 

Ode on Solitude 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 

Ode to Baauty 

Ode to Du^- 

Oft in the Stilly Ni,^ht 

Oh. mav I join the Choir Invisible 
Oh the Pleasant Days of Old. . . . 

On a Lady Sin-ring 

On the Receipt of my Mother's 

Picture 

One Gray Hair 

Over the River 

Passions. The 

Penseroso, II 

Petition to Tim-. A 

Poefs Thou ,'ht, A 

Problem. Tn2 

Psalm of Life, A 

R?ply. The 

Resolution and Independence. . . 

Seed-Time and Harvest 

Shakespeare 

She Walks in Beauty 

She was a Phantom of Delight. . 

Shepherd's Hunting, The 

Ships at Sea 

Sir Marmaduke 

Sit down, Sad Soul 

Slave Singing at Midnight, Tha. . 

Sleep 

Sleep. The 

Smoking Spiritualized 

Soldier's Dream, The 

Solitary Reaper, The 

Solitude 

Song — Down lay in a Nook 

Song — O Lady. Leave 

Song — Oh say not that my Heart 
Song — Rarely, rar.jly "comest 

Thou 

Song— Still to be Neat 

Song — Sweet are the Thoughts . 
Song — Time is a Feathered 

Thing 

Song — What Pleasures have 

Great Princes 

Song of the Devas to Prince Sid- 

dartha 

Song of the Forge 



PAGE 

Wastell 772 

Surrey 698 

Lyall 780 

Landor 733 

Goethe 694 

Knox 776 

Burleigh 677 

Strode 669 

Shelley 738 

Southey 768 

Byrd 705 

W. Whitman 669 

Habington 761 

Clough 738 

J/. E. Cook 731 

Keats 694 

Wordsworth 758 

Keats 697 

Pope 73-2 

Ley.le.i 640 

Enursox 70.3 

Wordsworth 739 

Moore 761 

Eliot 780 

F. Brow.i 743 

Parsons 673 

Cowpsr 653 

Landor 731 

Mrs. Waksfield 781 

Collins 671 

.miton 7IX) 

Cornwall 736 

Cornwall 695 

Emerson 752 

Longfellow 768 

Xorris 702 

Wordsworth 695 

Whittier 757 

Sterling 679 

B'/ron, 076 

Woriszvort.'i 676 

Wither 079 

Cojin. 647 

Colman 728 

Corn iva'l 769 

Longfelloiv 764 

Doivland 765 

Mrs. Browning 764 

Anonymous 720 

Campbell 649 

Wordsworth 676 

Cowley 7*i 

//. Taylor 726 

.^190^^ 675 

Wolfe 739 

Shelley 710 

Jonson 6r4 

Greene 701 

Anonytnous 737 

Byrd 702 

E. Arnold 767 

Anonymous 644 



Sonnet — Of Mortal Glory 

Sonnet — Sad is our Youth 

Sonnet — The Nightingale is 
Mute 

Sonnet — 'Tis much Immortal 
Beauty 

Sonnet — Who Best can Paint . . 

Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Soul's Defiance, The 

Soul and Body 

Spinning 

Stanzas — My Life is like the 
Summer Rose 

Stanzas — Thought is Deeper. . . 

Steamboat, The 

Strife, The 

Sunken City, The 

Sunrise comes To-Morrow 

Sweet is the Pleasure 

Sweet Pastoral, A 

Tables Turned, The 

Temperance ; or the Cheap Phy- 
sician 

Thanatopsis 

The Sturdy Rock, for all his 
Strength 

The Sunrise never Failed us yet. 

The Winter being Over 

The World is too Much with us. 

There are Gains for all our Losses 

There be Those 

Those Evening Bells 

Thou wert Lovelv on thy Bier. . . 

Tiber Mouth, At! 

Time's Cure 

Tithonus 

To Constantia, Singing 

To mv Sister 

ToPe'rilla 

To the Ladv Margaret 

Traveller, the 

Two Oceans, The 

Uhland 

Ulysses 

Vanitas Vanitatum 

Vanity of Human Wishes 

Verses, supposed to be Written 
by Alexander Selkirk 

Victorious Men of Earth 

A'illage Blacksmith, The 

Virtue 

Vision. The 

Waitinii by the Gate 

Where Lies the Land 

White Island. The 

Who is Sylvia ? 

W!iv thus Longing ? 

Will. The 

Wish. A 

Without and Within 

Woman's Voice 

\\'oo(l-Notes 

World. The 

Would you l)e Youne again ? — 

Written at an Inn at Henley 

Youth and Calm 



PAGE 

Drummond 774 

De Vere 737 

Thurlow 693 

Thvrlow 675 

Thvrlow 095 

Drummond 707 

Milton 742 

L.Stoddard 737 

Sivinburne 639 

3Irs. Jackson 741 

P. H. Wilde 738 

Cranch 715 

Holmes 642 

Tennyson 764 

Muller 718 

Anonymous 651 

Du'ight 715 

Breton 707 

Woidsuwth 715 

Crashaw 719 

Bnjant 779 

Anonyn^ous 762 

Thaxter 773 

Ann Collins 706 

Wordsworth 629 

P. H. Stoddard 737 

Barton 749 

Moore 668 

Walker 774 

Podd 750 

Anonyiious 736 

Teninjton 630 

Shelley 672 

Whittier 677 

Ihriick 732 

Iknntl 704 

Ochhii. ifh 654 

Sterling 641 

L> tier 692 

7enhi,^fn 631 

Thackeiay 729 

Johnson 721 

Covper 641 

Shirley 650 

Longfelloiv MS 

J/f-rbht 762 

Burns 686 

Bryant 734 

( longh 648 

Jleriick 743 

Shake-yieare 675 

Mis. Seirall 740 

Ponne 775 

M. A mold 774 

Londl 725 

E. Arnold 673 

Emerson 711 

Very 748 

Lady Xairne 783 

Shenstone 7*3 

M. Arnold 648 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



A Little "Wliile Bonar 831 

All Well Bonar 837 

Call, The Jhrhert 804 

Charity /. Montgomery 82:^ 

Chorus yihnan 847 



Christmas 



Christmas Hymn, A Domett 812 

Come unto Me ,V/-.*. Barbauld 807 

Creator and Creatures Watts 844 

Darkness is Thinnins: St. Gregory 789 

Di-ad Christ, The . . .^. Mr>t. Howe 81 1 



Tennyson 812 i Death Westty . 



828 



Delight in God only 

Desiring^ to Love 

Divine Ejaculation 

Divine Love 

Dying Christian to his Soul, The 

Each'Sorrowf ul Mourner 

Easter 

Easter Hvmn 

Elder Scripture, The 

Emigrants in Bermudas, The 

Epiphany 

Evening 

Example of Christ, The 

Exhortation to Prayer 

Feast, The 

Field of the World, The 

Flower. The 

For a Widower or W^idow 

For Believers 

For New-Year's Day 

Friend of All 

Future Peace and Glory of the 

Church 

Gethsemane 

God 

God is Love 

God, the Everlasting Light 

Heaven 

Heavenly Canaan, The 

Humility 

Hymn — Brother, thou art Gone. 
Hymn — Drop, drop, slow Tears. 
Hymn — From my Lips in their 

Defilement 

Hymn — How are Thy Servants 

Blest 

Hymn — In Darker Days 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 

Hymn — When all Thy Mercies . 
Hymn — "VMien Gathering Clouds 
Hvmn — When Rising from the 

Bed 

Hymn — When the Angels 

I Journey through a Desert 

In a Clear, Starry Night 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul 

Jesus shall Reign 

Joy and Peace m Believing 

Laborer's Noonday Hj'mn, The. 

Land beyond the Sea, The 

Land o' the Leal, The 

Light Shining out of Darkness . . 

Litany 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 

Lord, the Good Shepherd 

Mary 

Martyrs' Hymn, The 

Messiah 

My God, I love Thee 



PAGE 

F. Qitarles 850 

Wesley 823 

J. Quarles 849 

Tersteegen 824 

Poi)e 825 

Pntdentius 830 

Herbert 800 

Blackburn 801 

Keble 792 

Marvell 814 

Heber 797 

Anonymous 793 

Watts 807 

Mercer 821 

Yaughan 805 

J. Montgonury 819 

Herbert 806 

Wither 829 

Wesley 824 

Doddndge 792 

Wesley 809 

Coivper 835 

J. Montgomery 800 

Derzhavin 852 

Anonymous 847 

Doddndge 832 

J. Taylor 836 

Watts .: 832 

J. Montgomei-y 817 

Milman 827 

P. Fletcher 812 

Damascenus 802 

Addison 843 

T. Parker 820 

Sir W.Scott 814 

Addison 842 

Grant 810 

Addison 828 

Breton 821 

Anonymous 803 

Wither 794 

Wesley 808 

Watts 800 

Cou-jyer 822 

Wordsworth 815 

Faber 826 

Xai7vi€ 827 

Cou'jyer 844 

arant 809 

Herrick 825 

J. Montgomery 838 

Tennyson 822 

Luther 819 

Pope 797 

St. Fran. Xavier 802 



My Psalm 

My Spirit Longeth for Thee 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 

New Jerusalem, The 

Ode — The Spacious Firmament. 

Odor. The 

Oh, Fear not Thou to Die 

Oh yet we Trust 

On a Prayer-Book 

On Another's Sorrow 

On the Morning of Christ's Na- 
tivity 

Our Father's Home 

Passion Sunday 

Peace. 

Philosopher's Devotion, The 

Praise to God 

Praver, Living and Dying 

Priest, The 

Psalm XIII 

Psalm X^^II 

Psalm XIX 

Psalm XXin 

Psalm XXIII 

Psalm XLVI 

Psalm XL\T 

Psalm LXV 

Psalm C 

Psalm CX\^I 

Reign of Christ on Earth, The . . 

ResigTiation 

Rest is not Here 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. 

Rules and Lessons 

Search after God 

Sonnet— In the Desert 

Sonnet — The Prayers I make 

Sonnets 

Spirit-Land. The 

Stranger and his Friend, The 

St. Peter's Day 

They are all Gone 

Thou art Gone to the Grave 

Thou, God, Seest Me 

Thou, God, L'n searchable 

Time Past, Time Passing, Time 
to Come 

To Keep a True Lent 

True Use of Music, The 

Trust in Providence 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany . . 

L'niversal Praj'er, The 

Veni, Creator 

Walking with God 

Watchman's Report, The 

Weeping Mary 

What is Prayer ? 

Wilderness Transformed, The. . . 

Wrestling Jacob 



PAGE 

Whittier 815 

Byron 810 

Adams 845 

Anonymous 832 

Addison 793 

Herbert 805 

Anonr/mous 825 

Tennyson 821 

Crashaw 817 

Blake 846 

MUton 794 

Trench 831 

Fortunatus 800 

Yaughan a36 

More 791 

Mrs. Barbauld 837 

Toplady 807 

Breton 816 

Davison 839 

Sternhold 839 

Watts »10 

Davidson 840 

Merrick 840 

Watts 841 

Luther 841 

Watts 842 

Tate and Brady 842 

Watts S42 

./. Montgomery 799 

Chatterton 847 

Lady Xairne 826 

Mrs. Wtllard 808 

Yaughan 789 

Hey wood 844 

Anonymous 811 

Michel Angelo 838 

F. Quarles 806 

Yery 792 

J. Montgomery 804 

Keble 813 

Yaughan 830 

Heber 828 

J. Montgotnery 850 

Wesley 851 



,/. Montgomery 851 

Herrick 816 

Wesley 818 

Williams 820 

Wither 799 

Poi)e 848 

St.Amtrrose 838 

Cowjyer 846 

Boivring 808 

Neuton 801 

,/. Montgotnery 820 

Doddridge 836 

Wesley 803 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Adam, Jean. 

Born in Greenock, Scotland, about 1710; died in the almshonse in 
Glasgow, April 3, 1765. 

There "s nae Luck about the House 265 

Adams, Sarah Flower (born Floweu). 

Born ID London in 1805 ; died in 1849. 

Nearer, my God. to Thee 845 

Addison, Joseph. 

Born in Wiltshire, England, May 6, 1672; died in London, June 17, 
1719. 

Ode — The spacious firmament 793 

Hymn — When rising from the bed 828 

Hymn — When all Thy mercies 843 

Hymn — How are Thy servants blest 842 

Akenside, Mark. 

Bom in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Nov. 9, 1721 ; died June 23, 1710. 

On a Sermon against Glory 419 

Aldrich, James. 

Bom in Orange County, N. Y., July 10, 1810; died tn 1856. 

A Death-Bed 541 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Bom in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1836. 

Nocturne 284 

Fredericksburg !!.!!!...! 394 

Allingham, William. 

Born in Ballyshannon, Ireland, in 1828 ; lives in London. 

Robin Redbreast 80 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 270 

The Fairies 592 

Allston, Washington. 

Bom in South Carolina, Nov. 5, 1779; died in Cambridire, Mass.. 
July 9, 1843. (5 > . 

Boyhood 141 

Ambrose, St. (Latin.') 

Bom in Treves, a. d. 340; died in MUan, April 8, 397. 

Veni Creator. {DryderCs paraphrase.) 838 

Anacreon. (Greek.) 

Born in Teo», Greece ; died Wen, 476 b.c. 

Spring. {Moore's translation.) '. 6 

The Grasshopper. ( Coidei/s translation.) 53 

On the Grasshopper. ( Cowper's translation.) S4 

Drinking. ( Cowlei/s translation.) 64 

The Cheat of Cupid. {Herrick's translation.) 286 

2 



PAGE 

Anderson, Alexander. 

Lives in England. 

Cuddle Doon 115 

Angelo, Michel. (Italian.) 

Born in Tuscany, March 6, 1474 ; died in Rome, Feb. 17, 1563. 

Sonnet. (.7. E. Taylor's translation.) 245 

Sonnet. ( IF. Wordsivo7'th's translation.) 245 

Sonnet. (./. E. Taylor's translation.) 202 

Sonnet. (S. Wordsworth's translation.) 838 

Anster, John. 

Born in Ireland in 1798 , vcas Professor of Civil Law in Trinity Col- 
lege, Dublin ; died June 9, 1867. 

The Fairy Child 120 

Antipater of Sidon. (Greek.) 

Lived in Greece about 100 b. c. 

On Anacreon. ( T. Moore's translation.) 678 

Arnold, Edwin. 

Bom in London in 1832. 

Woman's Voice 673 

The Song of the Devas 767 

He who Died at Azan 783 

Arnold, Matthew. 

Bom in Laleham, England, Dec. 24, 1822. 

Philomela 40 

The Forsaken Merman 320 

Excuse 321 

Indifference 322 

The Last Word 419 

Sohrab and Rustum 498 

Youth and Calm 648 

Bacchanalia ; or. The New Age 746 

A Wish 774 

Aytoun, \Villiam Edmondstoune. 

Born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1814 ; died Aug. 4, 186S. 

Massacre of the Macphersou 456 

Baillie, Joanna. 

Bom in Lanarkshire, Scotland, Sept. II, 1768; died at Hampstead, 
near London, Feb. 23, 1S51. 

The Black Cock : 21 

Barbauld, Anna L<etitia (1x)rn Aikin). 

Born in I eicestershire, England, June 20, 1743; died n«ar London, 
March 9, ifftJV 

Life 782 

Death of the Virtuous 780 

Come unto Me ^' 

Praise to God 837 



r 



xvm 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Barnard, L.ady Anne (bom Lindsat). 

Bom in Balcarres, Scotland, Dec 8, 1750; died May 8, 1826. 

Anld Robin Gray 316 

Barnfield, Richard. 

Bom in Staffordshire, England, in 1574 ; died about 1606. 

Address to the Nightingale 38 

Barrj-, Michael Joseph. 

Bom in Ireland about 1815. Contributed this poem to the Dublin 
" Naticn " in 1843. 

The Place where Man should Die 419 

Barton, Bernard. 

Born near London, Jan. 31, 1784 ; died Feb. 19, 1849. 

Noc ours the Vows 339 

There be Those 749 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

Bdto in Bath, England, Oct. 13, 1797 ; died April 22, 1839. 

She Wore a Wreath of Roses .535 

Oh : Where do Fairies Hide their Heads '' 584 

Beattie, James. 

Born ii Kincardineshire, Scotland, Oct. 20, 1735; died Aug. 18, 

i8;'3. 



The Hermit 



763 



Bea. 



. :»nt and Fletcher. 



Were connected as writers in London from about 1605 to 1615. 
Francis '^.eaimoxt was bom in Leicestershire in 1586; died March 
9, 16; j. JcHN Fletcher was born in Northamptonshire in 1576; 
died in Lundon in 1625. 

Spring 7 

To Pan .• 51 

Folding the Flocks 96 

Beauty Clear and Fair 251 

Speak, Love 2.51 

Hence, all \-ou Vain Delights 726 

Beddoes, Thomas liOvell. 

Bom near Bristol, England, in 1802 ; died in Germany in 1849. 

Dir^e 552 

Bridal Song and Dirge 552 

Bennett, Henry. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, about 1785. 

St. Patrick was a Gentleman 471 

Bennett, William Cox. 

Bom in Greenwich, England, in 1830 ; lives in London, 

Invocation to Rain in Summer 62 

To a Cricket 102 

Baby May 113 

Baby's Shoes 150 

Berkeley, George. 

liorn in Kilcrin, Ireland, March 12, 1684 ; died Bishop of Cloyne, 
Jan. 13, \'ii. 

On the T*rospect of Planting Arts and Learning in 
America 388 

Bethunc, John. 

Dora in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1812; died Sept. 1, 1839. 

Hymn of the Church-yard 777 

Blackburn, Thomas. 

Author of" Hvmns and Pocir.s for the Sick and Stiffering." 

An Easter Hymn SOI 

Blake, William. 

Bom in London, Nov. 20, 1757 ; died Aug. 18, 1887. 

The Tii:er .57 

Introduction — Piping down the valleys 11.3 

The Lirtle Vajrabond 1.S3 

The Little Black Boy 147 

The (iarden of Love 752 

On Another's Sorrow 846 



PAGE 

Blanchard, L>aman. 

Born in Great Yarmouth, England, May 15, 1803 ; died Feb. 5, 
1S45. 

The Mother's Hope 122 

Blunt, Wilfred Scawen. 

Born in England about 1840. 

The Oasis of Sidi Khaled 58 

To One who would make a Confession 247 

To One Excusing his Poverty 247 

Boker, George Henry. 

Born in Philadelphia in 1824. 

The Black Regiment 396 

Dirge for a Soldier 558 

Bonar, Horatins. 

Born in Scotland about 1810. Minister of the Free Church in 
Kelso. 

A Little While 831 

All Well 837 

Bourne, Vincent. 

An usher in Westminster School ; bom about 1700 ; died Dec. 2, 
1747. 

The Cricket ( Cmcper^s translation) 102 

Bowles, William Lisle. 

Bom in Northamptonshire, England, Sept. 24, 1762; died April 7, 
1S50. 

Come to these Scenes of Peace 44 

The Greenwood 44 

On the Funeral of Charles I 556 

Bo-wring, Sir John. 

Born in Eieter, England, Oct 27, 1792; died Nov, 22, 1872. 

The Watchman's Report 808 

Brainard, John Gardner Calkins. 

Bom in New London, Conn., Oct. 21, 1796 ; died Sept 26, 1S28. 

Epithalamium 339 

Breton, Nicholas. 

Bom in England in 1555 ; died in 1624. 

Phlllida and Corydon 247 

A Sweet Pastoral 707 

The Priest 816 

Hymn — When the angels 821 

Bronte, Emily. 

Bom in Yorkshire, England, in 1818 ; died there, Dec, 19, 1848. 

Remembrance 310 

Brooks, Maria (bom Gowen). 

Born in Medford, Mass., about 1795 ; died in Ctiba, Not. 11, 1846. 

Song 282 

Brown, Frances. 

Born in Stranolar, Ireland, Jan. 16, 1816. 

Losses 740 

Oh : the Pleasant Days of Old 743 

Is it Come * 745 

If that were True 745 

Browne, William. 

Born In Devonshire, England, in 1590; died in 1643. 

Shall I Tell ? 250 

Welcome, Welcome 261 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (born BAnnETTi. 

Born in Hope End, Herefordshire, in \S"9; died in Florence, June 
89, 1861. 

The Child and the Watcher 117 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 226 

Sonliets from the Portuguese 246 

Bertha in the Lane 817 

Mother and Poet 563 

Cowper's Grave 685 

The Sleep 764 



PAGE 



Browning, Kobert. 

Born nearLoodon in 1812. 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 128 

The Glove 210 

Misconceptions 294 

One Way of Love 294 

In a Year 301 

Evelyn Hope 325 

Give a Rouse 369 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix 385 

Incident of the French Camp 400 

Herv6 Kiel 409 

The Flight of the Duchess 441 

The Lost Leader 555 

Bryant, William Cullen. 

Born in Cummingtoa, Mass., November 3, 1794 ; died in New York, 
Juneli, 1378. 

To a Waterfowl 

To the Fringed Gentian 

Death of the Flowers 

The Hunter of the Prairies 

The Evening Wind 

The Burial of Love 

Song of Marion's Men 

Oh : Mother of a Mighty Race 

The Battle-Field 

The Hunter's Vision 

The Crowded Street 

Waiting by the Gate 

Thanatopsis 



42 

82 

84 

85 

96 

332 

389 

391 

393 

528 

717 

7.34 

779 



Buchanan, Robert. 

Bom in Scotland, Aug. 18, 1811. 

The Old Politician.... 
The Green Gnome .... 



Bunyan, John. 

Born in Elstow, England, in 1628; died in London, Aug. 31, 1688. 
The Pijcrrim 



Burbidge, Thomas. 

Born in England; published " Poems, Longer and Shorter," Lon- 
don, 1838. 

Mother's Love 

If I Desire with Pleasant Songs 

Burleigh, George S. 

Born in Plainfield, Conn., March 26, 1821. 

Mother Margery 

Burns, Robert. 

Born near Ayr, Scotland, Jan. 25, 1759; died July 21, 1T96. 

To a Mountain Daisy 

My Heart "s in the Highlands 

Auld Lang Syne 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 

Here "s a Health to Ane 

Farewell to Nancy 

Red, Red Rose 

Lass of Ballochmyle 

Address to a Lady 

Bonnie Leslie ' . . 

Highland Mary .\. 

To Mary in Heaven 

My Wife "s a Winsome Wee Thing 

The Bli.ssful Day '. 

John Anderson 

Bannock-Burn 

Kenmure "s on and Awa' 

Here 's a Health to them that 's Awa' 

Tarn o' Shanter 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 

The Vision ' 

Honest Poverty. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night. 



415 
594 



420 



124 

287 



677 



28 
85 
182 
264 
265 
265 
266 
266 
267 
268 
326 
327 
342 
344 
344 
369 
377 
377 
457 
497 
M5 
686 
744 
753 



PAGE 

Butler, William Allen. 

Born in Albany, N. Y., in 1825. 

Uhland 692 

All s Well. 702 

Byrd, William. 

An English musical composer; lived about 1600. 

Song 702 

My jlinde to Me a Kingdom is 705 

Byrom, John. 

Born in Kersall, England, in 1691 ; died Sept. 08, 1763. 

My Spirit Longeth for thee 811 

Byron, L.ord. 

Born in London, Jan. 22, 1788; died April 19, 1824. 

Stanzas to Augusta . . 170 

To Thomas Moore 175 

Maid of Athens, ere we Part 2<i2 

The Girl of Cadiz 203 

Stanzas for Music 204 

Stanzas — Oh, talk not to me 2<»2 

The Dream 2ir, 

When We Two Parted 3<Ki 

Destruction of Sennacherib 3.j3 

Song of the Greek Poet 41 1 

The^Prisoner of Chillon 512 

Oh, Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom tu»548 

She Walks in Beauty 070 

■I 
Callistratus. (Greek.) __j^' 

Lived in Greece about 500 b. c. 

Harmodius and Aristogeiton. (Lord Demnan's 
trandation.) 354 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Born in Glasgow, July 27, 1777; died in Boulogne, June 15, 1844. 

To the Evening Star 99 

Song 282 

Lochiel's Warning 378 

Hohenlinden 4(X> 

Ye Mariners of England 4<.13 

Battle of the Baltic 403 

Lord L'llin's Daughter 518 

The Soldier's Dream 649 

Hallowed Ground 755 

Canning, George. 

Born in London, .^pril 11, 1770; died in Chiswick, Aug. 8, 1827. 

Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder 401 

Song of one Eleven Years in Prison 462 

Carew, Thomas. 

Born in Devonshire, England, in 1589; died in 1639. 

The Airs of Spring 3 

Disdain Returned .*. . 254 

Song 256 

Carj', Alice. 

Born in Ohio, April 96, 1820; died in New York, Feb. 12, 1S71. 

Among the Beautiful Pictures 151 

Chalkhill, John. 

A friend of Izaak Walton ; lived in the seventeenth century. 

The Angler 13 

Channing, William Ellery. 

Born in Boston, June 10, 1818. 

To my Companions 181 

Chatterton, Thomas. 

Born in Bristol, England, Nov. 20, 1752; killed himself, Aug. 25. 
1770. 

Minstrel's Song .324 

Resignation 847 



XX 



lyDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Chaucer, Geoffrey. 

Born in Lcndon in 13i8; died Oct. 25, 1400. 

The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 17 

Clare, John. 

Born in Northamptonshire, England, July 13, 1793; died in 1864. 

July 43 

Claudius, Matthias. (German.) 

Bern nenr Lubeck, Germany, in 1743; died in 1815. 

Xight Song. (C T. Brooks's trcuislation.) 100 

Cloiigh, Arthur Hugh. 

Born in Liverpool, Jan. 1, 1819; died in Florence, Italv, Nov. 13, 
1861. 

Qua Cursum Yentus 169 

Where Lies the Land 648 

Despondency Rebuked 652 

No ^lore 738 

Coffin, Robert Barry, 

Lives in New York. 

Ships at Sea 647 

Coleridge, Hartley (son of S. T. Coleridge). 

Bom ne-r Bristol, England, Sept. 19, 1796; died Jan. 19, 1849. 

Song — The Lark 12 

Nov'eniber 94 

Song — She is not fair 250 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Bern in Devonshire, England, Oct. 21, 1772; died July 25, 1834, 

The Nightingale 40 

Hymn before Sunrise 110 

Love 224 

Cologne • 460 

The Devil's Thoughts 460 

Song — Hear, SAveet spirit 595 

Rinie of the Ancient Mariner 615 

Kubla Khan 614 

Dejection : an Ode 726 

The Good Great Man 742 

Collins, Ann. 

Lived in England about 1650. 

The Winter being Over 706 

Collins, William. 

Horn in Cbich.ster, England, Dec. 25, 1720; died in 1756. 

Ode to Evening 97 

Ode — Hov.' sleep the brave 384 

Dirjre in Cymbeiine 551 

The Pa.<sions 671 

Col man, George, The Younger. 

Bom in Lcndon, Oct. 51, 1768 j died Oct. 26,- 1836. 

Sir Mannaduke 728 

Congreve, William. 

Born in Bardsey, England, in February, 1670; died in London, Jan. 
19, 1709. 

Tlie White Rose 248 

Cook, Marc Eugene. 

Born in l'iD4 ; died in Utica, N. Y., Oct. 4, 1882. 

Nothing New under the Sun 731 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 

Bern in Martinsburg, Va., Oct. 26, 1816; died Jan. 20, 1850. 

P'lorence Vane 328 

Cooke, Rose Terry (bom Terry). 

Bern in Hartford, Conn., where she now llyei. 

Trailing Ar1)utus 31 

Rg\ c du Midi 50 

Then .319 

The Fishing-Song 564 



Corbett, Richard. 

Born in Surrey, England, in 1582 ; died in 1635. 

The Fairies" Farewell 



page 



503 



Cornwall, Barry (Bryan Waller Procter). 

Born in Wiltshire, England, in 1787 ; died in London, Oct. 5,1874. 

The Blood Horse 

The Sea 

The Stormy Petrel 

The Hunter's Song 

A Song for the Seasons 

Sonar — Love me if I live 

The'Poet's Song to his Wife 

Softly Woo away her Breath 

The Mother's Last Song 

Peace ! What do Tears Avail ? 

A Bridal Dirge 

Hermione 

A Poet's Thought 

A Petition to Time 

Sit down. Sad Soul -. 

Life 

Cotton, Charles. 

Born in Derbyshire, England, in 1630 ; died in 1687. 

The Retirement 



Cotton, Nathaniel. 

Born in St. Albans, England, in 1721 ; died in 1788. 

The Fireside 



61 
66 
67 
86 
108 
272 
343 
528 
537 
.541 
553 
676 
695 
730 
709 
709 



49 



341 



Cowley, Abraham. 

Born in London in 1618 ; died July 28, 1667. 

The Garden 46 

The Chronicle 283 

On Solitude 7^3 



Cowper, William. 

Born in Hertfordshire, England, Nov. 15, 1731 ; died April 25, 1800. 

Boadicea 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 

On the Loss of the Royal George 

Verses, supposed to be writtenby Alex. Selkirk. . 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 

Human Frailty 

Joy and Peace in Believing .• 

The Future Peace and Glory of the Church 

Light Shining out of Darkness 

Walking with God 



355 
4.52 
519 
641 
6.53 
741 
822 
8:^5 
844 
846 



Craik, Dinah Maria (bom Mulock). 

Born in Stoke-upon-Trent, England, in 1826. 

North Wind 106 

Philip, my King 117 

Too Late 329 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse. 

Bom in Alexandria, D. C, March 8, 1813; lives in Cambridge, 
Mass. 

Stanzas — Thought is deeper 715 

Crashaw, Richard. 

Born in Cambridgeshire, England, about 1600 ; died in 1650. 

Song — To thy lover 255 

Temperance, or the Cheap Physician 719 

On a Prayer-Book 817 

Crawford, Mrs. Julia. 

Bom in Ireland ; died ab»ut ISS'. 

We Parted in Silence 300 

CroflTut, WllUam Andrews. 

Born in Danbary , Conn., In 1836; lives in New York. 

Clam-Soup 462 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



:xi 



PAGE 

Croly, George. 

Born in Dublin in 1780 ; died in 1860. 

Leonidas 3o5 

Pericles and Aspasia 356 

Dirge 784 

Cunningham, Allan, 

Born in Blackwood, Scotlund, Dec 17, 1784 ; died Dec. 29, 1842. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 67 

Thou hast Vowed by thv Faith, my Jeanie 267 

The Poefs Bridal-Day S^ong 343 

Hame. Haine, Hame 380 

My Aiu Conntreo 381 

Gane were but the Winter Cauld 548 

Curtis, George W'illiam. 

Born in Providence, R. I., in lS'i4 ; lives on Staten Islnnd. 

Egyptuin Serenade 674 

Damascenus, St. Joannes. (Greek.) 

Born in Damascus ; died about 756. 

Hymn. {E. B. Browning's translation.) 802 

Dana, Kicliard Henry. 

Bom in Cambridge, Mass., Nov. 15, 1787 ; died in Boston, Feb. 2, 
1870. 



The Little Beach-Bird. 



70 



Daniel, Samuel. 

B rn in Somersetshire, England, in 1562 ; died in October, 1619. 

Love is a Sickness 248 

To the Lady Margaret 704 

Darley, George. 

Corn in Dublin in 1785; died in London in 1849. 

The Gambols of Children 1.32 

Love-Song 278 

Sylvia 279 

Davi.s, Thomas Osborne. 

Born in Mallow, Ireland, in 1814; died in Dublin, Sept. 16, 1845. 

The Welcome 272 

Fontenoy 382 

Davison, Francis. 

Born in Norfolk, England, about 1575 ; died about 1618. 

Psalm XIII aso 

Psalm XXIII 840 

De Vere, Aubrey. 

Born in tie county Limerick, Ireland, Dec. 16, 1S14. 

Early Friendship 163 

Song — Sing the old song 279 

Sonnet — Sad is our youth 737 

Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanowitch. (Russian.) 

Born in Kasan, Russia, July i, 174.3; died July 6, 1816. 

God. (./. Boivring's translation.) 852 

Dibdin, Chai'les. 

Born in Southampton, England, in 1745 ; died in 1814. 

Sir Sidney Smith 456 

Tom Bowlinir 524 

The Anchorsmiths 645 



Dickens, Charles. 

Born i 1 Pcrtsmcuth, England, Feb. 7, 1819; died June 9, 1870. 
Tiic Ivv Green 



93 



Dimond, William. 

theatrical mauager; b 
ber, lh37. 

The Mariner's Dream 522 



A theatrical mauager; born in Bath, England; died in Pa-is in 
October, lh37. 



PA«E 

Dobell, Sydney. 

Bom iu Peckham Rye, England, April 5, 1824; died Aug. 24. 1^74. 

How "s my Boy ? .523 

Tommy "s Dead 532 

Dobson, Austin. 

Born in England in 1S40 ; lives in London. 

The Wanderer 287 

Doddridge, Philip. 

Born in London, June 26, 17C2; died in October, 1751. 

For New-Year's Day 71(2 

God the Everlasting' Light of the Saints 83:i 

The Wilderness Transformed 830 

How Gracious and how Wise 808 

Domett, Alfred. 

Bom in England about 1815 ; lives in London. 

A Christmas Hymn 812 

Donne, John. 

Born in London in 1573; died there, March 31, 1631. 

A Lecture upon the Shadow 247 

The Will 775 

Douglas of Fingland. 

Lived in Scotland In the seventeenth century. 

Annie Laurie 267 

Do^vland, John. 

An English musical composer ; lived about 1600. 

Sleep 765 

DoTrning, Mary, 

B irii in Cork, Ireland, about 1830. 

Were I but his own Wife 272 

Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings. 

Born in England in 1810. 

The Private of the Buffs 415 

Drake, Joseph Rodman. 

Born in New York, Aug. 7, 1795 ; died Sept. 21, 1880. 

The American Flag 391 

The Culprit Fay . .^ 585 

Drayton, Michael. 

Bern in Warwickshire, England, in 1563; died in 1631. 

I irive thee Eternity 245 

Ler us Kiss and Part 2.'V» 

Ballad of Agincourt COS 

Drummond, William. 

Bom in Hawthornden, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1585; died Pec. 4, 1649. 

Sou'i^— Pluvhus. arise 7 

To the Redbreast 1^7 

Sonnet — I know that all 2-'") 

Sonnets 707 

Sonnet — Of mortal glory 774 

Dryden, John. 

Bom in Northamptonshire, England, Aug. 9, 1631 ; died May 1, 1700. 

Alexander's Feast CC6 

Dufferin, Lady. 

Formerly Mrs. Blackwood ; ennddanzhter of R. B. Sheridin; sister 
of Mrs. Norton ; born in Ireland in 1>07 , died June 13. l'^'". 

Lament of rhe Irish Emigrant. .V}5 

Dunbar, William. 

Born in ScMl ml about 146i ; died about 1530. 

.Ml Earthly Joy returns in Pain ('29 

Dwight, Jolin Sullivan. 

Bom in I5..st,.n. M-sv.. Mnv 1.3, 1813. 

Sweet is the Pleagiire 715 



XXll 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Dyer, John. 

Born in M'ales in 1 700 ; died in 1758. 

GioiiL'ar Hill 94 

f^astman, Charles Gamage. 

Born in Fryeburg, Me., June 1, 1816; died in Burlington, Vt, in 
1861. 

A Snow-Storm 527 

Dirgre 552 

Eliot, George (Mrs. Cross, born Marian Evans"). 

Born in Grifl", Warwickshire, England, Nov. 22, 1820 ; died in Lon- 
don, Dec. 22, ISsO. 

Oh. may I join the Choir Invisible 780 

£lliott, Ebenezer. 

Born near Sheffield, England, March 17, 1781 ; died Dc-c. 1, 1849. 

The Bramble Flower 33 

A Poet's Epitaph 560 

Emerson, Kalph "Waldo. 

B'lrn in Boston, Mass., May 25, 1803; died in Concord, April 21, 

1882. 

The Rhodora 31 

To the Hnmble-Bee 55 

The Snow-Storm 107 

Threnody 153 

Ilvmn ;388 

Ode to Beauty 708 

Wood-Notes 711 

Brahma 714 

Good-bve 717 

Gnv . . .' 718 

Bacchus 719 

Fable 726 

Each and All 749 

The Problem 752 

Faber, Frederick William. 

Born in England, June 28 1814 ; died Sept. 26, 1863. 

The Land bevond the Sea 



Fenner, Cornelius George. 

Bom in Providence, R. I. , Dec. 30, 18J2; died in Cincinnati, Jan. 
4, 1847. 

Gulf-Weed 



826 



69 



Ferguson, Sir Samuel. 

Born ill Belfist, Ireland, March 10, 1810; is a barrister in Dublin. 

The Forging of the Anchor 645 

Fields, James Thomas. 

Dorii in Portsmouth, N. H., Dec. 3'., 181" ; died in Boston, April 24, 
1881. 

Ballad of the Tempest 146 

Dirge for a Young Girl 553 

Finch, Francis Miles. 

Born in Ithaca, X. Y.. June 9, 1827; lives there. 

The Blue and the Gray 398 

Fletcher, Giles. 

Born in Kent, England, about 1S50 ; died in 1610. 

Panglory's Wooing Song 253 

Fletcher, Phineas. 

Born in London in l.S^4 ; died about 1690 

Hymn — Drop, drop, slow tears 812 

Fortiinatus, Venantius. (Latin.) 

A ssint of the L.itin Church ; bom near Venice in 530 ; died about 
600. 

Passion Sunday. {Atwnymous translafioi).) 800 

i Freiligrath, Ferdinand. (German.) 

I Born ill Delniold, fJermniiy, June 17, 1810; died March 17, 1876. 

The Lion's Ride. (AiwtiymoHS translation.) 57 



PAGE 

Gay, John. 

Bom in Devonshire, England, in 1688 ; died Dec. 11, 1732. 

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan 215 

Gilman, Caroline (bom Howard). 

Born in Boston, Mass., in 1794. 

Annie in the Grave-yard 146 

Glazier, "William Belcher. 

Lives in Gardiner, Me. 

Cape Cottage at Sunset 169 

Glen, William. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 14, 1789 ; died there in December. 
1826. 

Wae 's Me for Prince Charlie 380 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. (German.) 

Born in Frankfort-on-the-Main, Aug. 29, 1749 ; died in Weimar in 

1832. 

The Minstrel. (./. C. Mangari's translation.) 694 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Born in the county Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1798 ; died April 4, 
1774. 

The Hermit 212 

Elegj^ on the Death of a Mad Dog 432 

Eletry on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Marv Blaize. . 455 

The Traveller ' 654 

The Deserted Village 659 

Grant, Sir Robert. 

Bom in Scotland in i'85 ; died July 9, 1838. 

Litany 809 

Hymn — When gathering clouds 810 

Gray, David. 

Born near Glasgow, Scotland, Jan. 29, 1838 ; died Dec. 3, 1S61. 

Sonnet — Die down, O dismal day ! 108 

Gray, David. 

Lives in Buffalo, N. Y. 

The Golden Wedding 344 

Gray, Thomas. 

Born in London, Dec. 20, 1716 ; died July 30, 1771. 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 1.37 

The Bard 363 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 784 

Greene, Robert. 

Born in Norwich, England, about 1J6C ; died Sept. 5, 1592. 

Philomela's Ode 2.56 

Song — Sweet are the thoughts 701 

Gregory the Great, St. (Latin.) 

Born in Rome about 54i> ; died 604. 

Darkness is Thinning. (./. M. Neale's transla- 
tion.) 789 

Griffith, George Bancroft. 

Lives in Lemp«ter, New Hampshire. 

Our Fallen Heroes 397 

Habingtoii, William. 

Born in Worcestershire, England, in 1605; died in 164S. 

Castara 2.53 

Night 761 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 

Horn in Guilford, Conn., July 8, 1790; died Nov. 17, 1867. 

Marco B'izzaris 412 

On thi- Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 559 

Hamilton, William. 

Born at Banjrour, Scotland, in 1'04 ; died in 1*54. 

The Braes of Yarrow 489 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXlll 



PAGE 

Harte, Bret. 

Born in AlbaD.v, N. Y., Aug. 25, 1839. 

Chiqnita 60 

Plain Language from Truthful James 482 

Harte, "Walter. 

Bora in ITUO ; died in Wales in 1774. 

Soliloquy 54 

Hawker, Robert Stephen. 

Born in Plymouth, England, in 1803; died in Cornwall in 1875. 

Song of the Cornish Men 383 

Hazewell, Edward Wentworth. 

Born in Massachusetts in 1S53 ; lives in Revere, Mass. 

Veteran and Recruit 384 

Heber, Reginald. 

Rorn in Cheshire, England, April il, 1783; died in India, April 3, 
1826. 

If thou wcrt by my Side 340 

Epiphany 797 

Thou art Gone to the Grave 828 

Heine, Heinrich. (German.) 

Bom in Dusseldorf, Germany, Jan. 1, 1800; died in Paris, Feb. 17, 
1856. 

The Lorelei. ( Crancli's translation.) 595 

The Water Fay. (Leland's tramlation.) 596 

The Fisher's Cottage. {Leland's translation.) 641 

Heuians, Felicia Dorothea (born Broavne). 

Bom in Liverpool, England, Sept. 25, 1794; died May 16, 1835. 

Willow Song 52 

The Wandering Wind 64 

The Adopted Child 142 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 387 

Casabianca 408 

Dirge 553 

Herbert, George. 

Born in Wales, April 3, 1593 ; died in February, 1632. 

Man 757 

Virtue 762 

Easter 801 

The Call ' "804 

The Odor 805 

The Flower 806 

Herrick, Robert. 

Born in London in 1591 ; date of death unknown. 

To Violets 29 

To Primroses 29 

To Blossoms 30 

To Daffodils '.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.. 30 

To Meadows 81 

Mrs. Eliz. Wheeler 252 

Night Piece 2.54 

Gather ye Rose-buds 3:33 

The Hag 4(jl 

Dirge of Jephthah's Daughter .5.50 

Delight in Disorder 074 

To Perilla \\ 732 

The White Island \^. .......... . 743 

To Keep a True Lent .!.!..!!.. 81() 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 825 

Hej'wood, Thomas. 

Lived in England, under Queen Elizabeth and Charles I. 

Song — Pack clouds away 12 

Search after God 844 

Hill, Thomas. 

Bom in New Brunswick, N. J., Jan. 7, 1818. 

The Bobolink 15 



Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 

Born in New York in 1806. 

Sparkling and Bright 

Monterey 



PAGE 



Hogg, James. 

Born in Ettrick, Scotland, in 1770 ; died Nov. 21, 1835. 

The Lark 

The Moon was A-Waning 

Kilmeny 



Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

Bom in Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 29, 1809. 

The Chambered Nautilus 

A Good Time Coming 

The Voiceless 

The Steamboat 

The Last Leaf 



Hood, Thomas. 

Bora in London in 1798; died May 3, 1845. 

Autumn 

To a Child Embracing his Mother 

To my Daughter 

I Remember, I Remember 

Fair Ines 

Ruth 

Serenade 

Ballad — It was not in the winter. . 

Ballad — Sigh on, sad heart 

Faithless Nelly Gray 

Faithless Sally Brown 

The Lady at Sea 

The Dream of Eugene Aram 

The Bridge of Sighs 

The Song of the Shirt 

The Death-Bed 

The Water Lady 

Song — A lake and a fairy boat 

Song — O lady, leave 



Howe, Julia "Ward (bom Ward). 

Born in New York in 1819. 

The Dead Christ 



Howitt, Mary (born Both am). 

Born in Uttoxeter, England, about 1804. 

Little Streams 

Broom Flower 

Cornfields 

The Fairies of the Caldon Low 



Hunt, Leigh. 

Born in Middlesex, England, Oct. 19, 17?4 ; died Aug. 2S, 1359. 

Chorus of Flowers 

Grasshopper and Cricket 

To J. H.— Four Years old 

To a Child during Sickness 

Jaffar 

The Nun 

Jenny Kissed Me 

Aboii Ben Adhem 

An Angel in the House 



Hunter, Anne (born Home). 

Born in Hull. England, in 174'.'; died Jan. 7, 1821. 

Indian Death-Song 



Hutchinson, FUen Mackay. 

A native of Rochester, N. Y. Lives in New York city. 

Harvest 

A Cry from the Shore 



Hyslop, James. 

Born in Scotland, July, 1798; died Dec. 4, 1827. 

The Cameronian's Dream 



173 
392 



12 
5^3 
579 



72 
181 
562 
642 
732 



92 
119 
126 
144 
268 
275 
277 
278 
294 
465 
466 
467 
524 
536 

538 

541 
596 
596 
675 



810 



25 

32 

83 

583 



:i5 
.54 

lis 

121 
1(J8 
284 
293 
642 
709 



387 



79 
648 



374 



XXIV 



INDEX OF AUTHOBS. 



PAGE 

IngeloTf", Jean. 

Bom in Boston, England, in 1830. Lives in London. 

Divided 298 

Ingram, John Kells. 

Bora in Ireland about ls2o. Is a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. 

The Memory of the Dead 413 

Jackson, Helen Hunt (bom Fiske). 

Cum in Amherst, Mass., in 1831. 

Spinning 741 

Johnson, .Samuel. 

Born in Lichfield, England, Sept 18, 1709 ; died in London, Dec. 18, 
1184. 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 721 

Jones, Ernest. 

A leading Churtist ; lived in England. 

Moonrise 99 

Jones, Sir William. 

Born in London, Sept. i;6, 1746; died April 27, 1794. 

Ode — What constitutes a state 418 

Jonson, Ben. 

Born in London, June 11, 1574, died Aug. 16, 1637. 

Triumph of Charis ^48 

Discourse with Cnpid 249 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 554 

Song — Stiil to be neat 674 

Judson, Emily (bom CnrBBrcK). 

B;)rn in Eaton, X. Y., Aug. 22, 1817 , died in Hamilton, N. Y., June 

I, 1S54. 

Watching ^42 

Keats, John. 

Bom in London in 1T9C; died Feb. 24, 1831. 

Ode to a Nightingale 39 

Hymn to Pan 50 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 54 

To Autumn 86 

Fancv 103 

The Eve of St. Agnes 217 

Fairy Song 578 

La Bcilo Dame sans Merci 579 

On first LookinjT into Cliapman's Homer 692 

Ode — Bards of passion 694 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 697 

Keble, John. 

Bora iu Gloucestershire, England, April 25, 1792; died March 29, 
1866. 

April 5 

The Elder Scripture 792 

St. Peter".« Day 813 

Kemble, Frances Ann. 

Bor.i in Ltmdon in 1811. 

Absence 281 

Kenyon, John. 

Died in London in 1857. 

Champagne Ros6 173 

Key, Francis Scott. 

Bi«rn in Frederick Co., Md., Aug. 1, 1779 ; died in Baltimore, Jan. 

II, I84-. 

T)>e Star-spangled Banner 390 

Kinn?, Henry. 

llishor. of Chichester, Ecgland; bora In 1591 ; died in 1669. 

T'r'e Exeqn V .547 

Life ". 772 



PAGE 

B[ingsley, Charles. 

Born in Devonshire, EIngland, June 12, 1819: died in London, Jan. 
23, 1875, 

The Knight's Leap 386 

Song — O Marv. go and call the cattle home 498 

The Fishermen 512 

The Day of the Lord 747 

Kinney, Coates. 

Born in Yates Co., N. Y., in 1826. Lives in Xenia, O. 

Rain on the Roof 62 

Knox, William. 

Born in Firth, Scotland, Aug. 1", 1789; died in Edinburgh, Nov. 12, 
1825. 

Mortality 776 

Knowles, Herbert. 

Born in Canterbury, England, in 1798 ; died in 1817. 

Lines Written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire 778 
Lamb, Charles. 

Born iu London, Feb. 18, 1775; died Dec. 27, 1834. 

The Christening 114 

The Gipsv's Malison 118 

The Old Familiar Faces 170 

Hvpochondriacus 463 

Farewell to Tobacco 464 

Hester 541 

liamb, Mary. 

Born in London in 1765 ; died May 20, 1847, 

Choosing a Name 114 

Liandon, L.8etitia Elizabeth. (Mrs. Maclean.) 

Born at Chelsea, England, in 1600; died in Africa, Oct. 16, 1838. 

The Shepherd Boy 126 

Little Red Riding Hood 127 

Night at Sea 178 

The Awakening of Endymion 279 

Lrandor, Walter Savage. 

Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1775; died in Florence, Italy, 
Sept. 17, 1864. 

The Brier 33 

Children 120 

The Maid's Lament 293 

Iphiirenia and Agamemnon .roo 

To >Iacaulay 694 

The One Gray Hair 731 

^Memory 733 

An Old Poet to Sleep 765 

Leland, Charles Godfrey. 

Born in Philadelphia, Aug. 15, 1824. 

Hans Breitmann's Party 483 

Ballad 483 

Lemon, Mark. 

Born in London, Nov. 30, 1809; died May 23, 1870. 

Old Time and 1 483 

Leonidas, of Alexandria. (Greek.) 

Born in the year 69; died in 129. 

On the Picture of an Infant. (Rogers's translation.) 120 
Leyden, John. 

Horn in Denholm, Scotland, Sept. 8, 1775; died in Batavia, island 
of Java. Aug. 21, 1811. 

Sabbath Morning 9 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 640 

Locker, Frederick. 

Born in Greenwich, England, in 1824. 

The Cuckoo 16 

A Nice Correspondent 292 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXV 



PAGE 

Lockhart, John Gibson. 

Bv-rn iu Glasgow iu n9i; died at Abbotsford, Nov. 26, 1854. 

Tlie Broadswords of Scotland 381 

Logan, John. 

Born in Scotland in 1748; died in December, 1788. 

To the Cuckoo 16 

Song — Yarrow stream 491 

Liongfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Horn m Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807; died in Cambridfre, Mass., 
March -.'4, 188 2. 

The Birds of KillingAvorth 21 

Flowers 36 

Twilight 68 

Seaweed 69 

Woods in Winter. 106 

Afternoon in February 107 

The Children's Hour 144, 

The Open Window 149 

The Fire of Drift- Wood 168 

Excel>5ior 420 

The Wreck of the Hespems 520 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 5.57 

The Village Blacksmith 043 

The Arsenal at Springfield 6.50 

The Light of Stars 760 

The Slave Singing at Midnight 764 

A Psalm of Life 768 

King Robert of Sicily 769 

Footsteps of Angels 773 

The Burial of the Poet 774 

Lovelace, Richard. 

Born in Kent, England, in 1618 ; died in 1658, 

The Grasshopper 53 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 254 

To A Ithea. from Prison 255 

To Lucasta 255 

Orpheus to the Beasts 309 

Lover, Samuel. 

Born in Dublin in 1797, died July 6, 1868. 

The Angel's Whisper 116 

Rory O'More 288 

Mollv Carew 289 

Widow Machree 290 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. Is U. S. Minister at Lon- 
don. 

To the Dandelion 33 

The Birch-Tree 51 

She Came and Went 150 

Jly Love 276 

The Courtin' 290 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks 484 

Rhoecus 612 

Hebe 674 

Without and Within 725 

Lowell, Maria Wliite (wife of James Russell 
Lowell). 
Born at Watertown, Mass., July 8, 18il ; died Oct. 27, 1S53. 

The Morning-Glory 150 

Lowell, Robert Traill Spence (l^rother of J. R. 
Lowell). 
Born in Boston, Oct. 8, 1816. 

The Relief of Lucknow 414 

Luther, Martin. (German.) 

Burn in Eislel.en, Saxony, Nov. 10, 1483; died Feb. 18, 1546. 

The Martyr's Hymn. {W. J. Fox's translation.).. 819 
Psalm XLVI. "( T. Carlyle's translation.) &41 

Lyall, Sir Alfred Couiyns. 

Lives in England. 

Meditations of a Hindoo Prince 780 



PAGE 

Lyttelton, Lord. 

Born in Hagley, England, Jan. 17, 1709; died there, Aug. 22, 177.3. 

Tell Me, my Heart 219 

Lytton, Ed^vard Robert Bulwer. 

Born in Herts, England, Nov. S, 1831. 

Changes .323 

Aux Italiens 327 

Midges 477 

Macaulay, Lord. 

Born in ti tliley Temple, England, Oct. 25, 1800; died in London, 
Dec. 28, 1853. 

Hoiatius a47 

Ivry 367 

Naseby 369 

McCarthy, Denis Florence. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, about 1810 ; died in Dublin, April '., 1882. 

Summer Longings 8 

MacDonald, George. 

Born in Hu„tly, Scotland, in 1824. 

The Earl o' Quarterdeck 202 

Song 336 

Mackay, Charles. 

Born in Perth, Scotland, in 1812. 

The Good Time Coming ISO 

What Might be Done 182 

McMaster, Guy Humjihrey. 

Born in Bath, Steuben County, N. Y., in 1829. 

Carmen Bellicosum 389 

Maginn, William. 

Born in Cork, Ireland, about 1793 ; died Aug. 20, 1S42. 

St. Patrick, of Ireland, my Dear 4?2 

The Irishman 473 

Mallett, David. 

Born in Scotland about 1700 ; died April 21, 1"65. 

A Funeral Hj-mn 546 

Marlowe, Christopher. 

Born in Canterbury, England, Feb. 26, 1564 ; died June 16, 1593. 

The Milk-:sraid"s Song 258 

Martin, Ada Louise. 

Sleep 103 

Marrell, Andrew. 

Born in Kingston-upon-Hull, Englhod, Nov. 15,16?0; died Aug. 
16, 1618. 

A Drop of Dew 6 

The Garden 45 

The LoN'er to the Glow-worms 252 

Horatian Ode 371 

The Nymph Complaining fiAA 

The Emigrants in Bermudas 814 

Mercer, Margaret. 

Born in Annapolis, Md., in 1791; died at Belmont, Va., Sept 19, 

1-47. 

Exhortation to Prayer 821 

Meredith, George. 

Born in Hampshire, England, about 182S. 

Love in the Valley 240 

Merrick, James. 

Born in England in 17'J0 ; died in 1769. 

Psalm XXIII &10 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley. 

Bora in Boston in 1811 ; died in l£74. 

A Winter Wish 171 



xxn 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Miller, Tlioinas. 

Born in Gainsborough, England, Aug. 31, 1S08 ; died Oct. 25, 1874. 

To George M 131 

Miller, William. 

Bom in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1810; died in 1873. 

Willie Winkie 115 

Milliken, Ricliar^ Alfred. 

Born in the county Cork, Ireland, in lTo7 , died in 1815. 

The Groves of Blarney 472 

Mills, J. Harrison. 

Liv^s in the United States. 

Over the Range 561 

IMiliuan, Henry Hart. 

Bora in London, Feb. 10, 1791 ; died there, SepL 24, 1888. 

The Hebrew Wedding 333 

Hj'mn — Brother, thou art gone 827 

Chorus — King of kings 847 

Itfilnes, Richard Monckton (Lord HorGHXON). 

Bom in Yorkshire, England, in 1SC9. 

The Brook-side 277 

Milton, Jolin. 

Born in London, Dec 9, 16C8 ; died Nov. 8, 1574. 

Son2 : On Mav morning 6 

To the Nightingale .38 

Sonnets 372 

Lycidas 542 

Cbmns. a Mask 599 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 678 

L'Allegro 698 

II Penseroso 700 

Sonnets 742 

On the Nativity 794 

Mitchell, Walter. 

Bern in Naatacket, Mass., about 1825. 

Tacking Ship off Shore 66 

Moir, David Macbeth.. 

Bora in Musselburgh, Scotland, Jan. 5, 1798 ; died July 6, 1651. 

Casa Wappy 156 

Montgomery, Alexander. 

Born in Ayrshire, Scotland, before 1550; died abcut 1611. 

Night is Nigh Gone 9 

Montgomery, James. 

Bora in Irvine, Scotland, Nov. 4, 1771 ; died April '0, 1854. 

Evening in the Alps 98 

The Reign of Christ on Earth 799 

Gethsemane 800 

The Stranger and his Friend 804 

Ilumilitv 817 

The Field of the World 819 

What is Praver ? 820 

Charity '. 823 

Tlie Lord the Good Shepherd 838 

Tliou. God. Seest Me 850 

Time Pa.<t. Time Passing. Time to Come 851 

Montrose, James Graham, Marquis of. 

Drrn in Montrose, Scotland, in 161'.'; hauged in Edinburgh, May 
51, 1651. 

My Dear and Only Love 259 

Moore, Clement Clarke. 

Horn in New Ycrk, Julv 15, 1779 ; died in Newport, R. L, July IC, 
1863. 

A Visit from St. Nicholas 131 



PAGE 

Moore, Thomas. 

Bom in Dublin, May iS, 1779 ; died Feb. 25, 1S52. 

The Last Rose of Summer 86 

Wreathe the Bowl 172 

Fill the Bumper Fair 173 

And doth not a Meeting like This 174 

Come. Send round the Wine 175 

Farewell ! but whenever you Welcome the Hour.. 175 

The Journey Onwards ..." 179 

Go w here Glorv waits Thee 1 2c9 

Flv to the Desert 269 

Fly not Yet 285 

She is far from the Land c26 

Song 383 

The^Harp that once through Tara's Halls 383 

Peace to the Slumberers .7. 384 

Oh : Breathe not his Name 549 

Those Evening Bells 668 

Canadian Boat-Song 673 

Arranmore 744 

Oft in the Stilly Night 761 

More, Henry. 

Born in Grantham, England, in 1614 j died in 1687. 

The Philosopher's Devotion T91 

Morris, ■William. 

Born near London, England, in 18^ 

Atalanta's Race 187 

Motherwell, William. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland. Oct. 13, 1"97 ; died Nov. 1, 183."=. 

Thev Come, the Merrv Summer Montlw 9 

The" Water \ The Water 26 

The Midnight Wind 105 

The Bloom'hath Fled thy Cheek. Mary 311 

Jeanie MoiTison 311 

Mv Held is like to Rend, Willie 312 

The Cavalier's Song. 366 

Covenanter's Battle-Chant 373 

When I beneath the cold, red Earth am Sleeping.. 560 

Moultrie, John. 

Born in England in 1800 ; died Dec. 26, 1875. 

The Three Sons 151 

Mueller, Wilhelm. (German.) 

Born in Dessau, Germany, Oct. 7, 1794; died Oct. 1, 1S27.' 

The Sunken City. (Jfariga?i's translation.) 718 

Munby, Arthur Joseph. 

Born in England about 1835. , 

Doris : A Pastoral 236 

Nairne, L<ady (bom Carolina Oliphant). 

Born in Perthshire, Scotland, in 1766 ; died there in 1846. 

The Laird o' Cockpen 214 

Would You be Young again ? 783 

Rest is not here 826 

The Land o* the Leal f 27 

Newman, John Henry. 

Born in London, Feb. 21, 1801. 

Flowers without Fruit 728 

Newton, John. 

Bom in London i;i 1725 ; died there in 1807. 

Weeping Mary 801 

Noel, Thomas. 

Author of '• Rhyme* and Roundelays," London, 1S41. 

The Pauper's Drive 540 

Norris, John. 

Born in England in 1657 ; died in 1711. 

The Reply 702 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



xxvii 



PAGE 

Norton, Caroline (born Sheridan). 

Born at Haraptor Court, England, in 1808; died June 15, 1877. 

The Mother's Heart 123 

We have been Friends together 171 

Allan Percy 322 

Love not 332 

The King of Denmark's Kide 517 

O'Hara, Theodore. 

Born in Kentucky about 1820 ; died in 1867. 

The Bivouac of the Dead 399 

O'Keefe, John. 

Born in Dublin, June 24, 1747 ; died Feb. 4, 1833. 

I am a Friar of Orders Gray 729 

Oldys, William. 

Born in England in 1696 ; died in 1761. 

The Fly 55 

Orleans, Charles, Duke of. (French.) 

Born in Paris, May 26, 13yl ; died Jan. 4, 1465. 

The Fairest Thing in Mortal Eyes. {H. Gary's 

translation.) 331 

O'Shaughnessy, Arthur W. E. 

Born in Ireland in 1846 ; died in London in February, 1881. 

Song 295 

Palmer, John Williamson. 

Boru in Baltimore, Md., about 1828. 

For Charlie's Sake 158 

Parker, Martyn. 

Lived in England in the seventeenth century. 

Ye Gentlemen of England 407 

Parker, Theodore. 

Born in Lexington, Mass., Aug. 24, 1810 ; died May 10, 1860. 

Hymn — In darker days 820 

Parsons, Thomas William. 

Bom in Boston, Mass., Aug. 18, 1819. 

A Song for September 80 

Saint iPeray 177 

The Groomsman to his Mistress 282 

On a Bust of Dante 418 

On a Lady Singing 673 

Peacock, Thomas L.ove. 

Born ill England in 17s5 ; died in 1866. 

The War-Song of Dinas Vawr 457 

Percival, James Gates. 

Born in Berlin, Conn., Sept. 15, 1705 ; died May 2, 1856. 

May 7 

■ The Coral Grove 71 

To Seneca Lake 74 

It is Great for our Country to Die 354 

Percy, Thomas. 

Born in Shronshire, E.ngland, in 172*; died, Bishop of Dromore, 
Ireland, in ISllI 

The Friar of Orders Gray 208 

Perry, Nora. 

Lives in Providence. R. I. 

Loss and Gain 1.58 

Riding Down 281 

Philostratus. (Giseek.) 

Born in Lemnos, Greece, about 189. 

To Celia. (B. Jonson's translation.) 249 



PAGE 

Pierpont, John. 

Born in Litchfield, Conn., April 6, 1785; died Aug. S6, 1866. 

My Child 157 

The Pilgrim Fathers 388 

Pinkney, Edward Coate. 

Born in London, October, 1802; died in Baltimore, April 11, 1828. 

Serenade 277 

A Health 278 

Poe, Edgar Allan. 

Born in Boston, Feb. 19, 1809 ; died in Baltimore, Oct. 7, 1849. 

Annabel Lee 325 

The Raven 623 

The Bells 665 

Pope, Alexander. 

Born in London, May 22, 1688; died May 30, 1744. 

The Rape of the Lock 433 

Ode on Solitude 732 

Messiah 797 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 825 

The Universal Prayer 848 

Praed, Winthrop MackAvorth. 

Born in London in 1802 ; died July 15, 1839. 

The Vicar 480 

Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine 481 

Charade 693 

Pringle, Thomas. 

Born in Blacklaw, Scotland, Jan. 5. 1789 ; died Dec. 5, 1834. 

The Lion and the Giraffe 58 

Afar in the Desert 59 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. 

Born in London, Oct. 30, 1825 ; died there, Feb. 2, 1864. 

A Doubting Heart, 103 

Prout, Father (Francis Mahont). 

Born in Ireland about 1805 ; died in Paris, May 19, 1866. 

The Bells of Shandon 664 

Prudentius, Aurelius. (Latin.) 

Bom in Spain. 34S. 

Each Sorro^vful Mourner. (./. 31. Neale''8 trans- 
lation.) 830 

Quarles, Francis. 

Born in Stewards, near Rumford, England, in 1592; died Sept. 8, 
1644. 

Sonnets 806 

Delight in God only 850 

Quarles, John (son of Francis Qt^rles). 

Born in Essex, England, in 1624; died in 1665. 

Divine Ejaculation 849 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 

Bern in Biidley, England, in l.i52; beheaded Oct. 99, 1618. 

The :\rilk-Maid's Mother's Answer 259 

The Lye 703 

Ramsay, Allan. 

Born in Crawford, Scotland, in 1685; died in 1758. 

Loriiaber no more 376 

Randolph, Thomas. 

Born in Pndby, England, in 160,1; died March 17. 1634. 

Souijf of Fairies. (Lf'iqh IbinTs translation.) 579 

Read, Thomas Riichanan. 

B.>rn in Chester County, Pa., Mar. h 12,182«; died In New York, 
May 11.1^7'.'. 

Driftinc: 73 

Autumn's Sisrhing 93 

The Windv Xisrht 104 



XXVIU 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Roberts, Sarah. 

Born in Portsmouth, X. H. Lives in one of the Western States. 

The Voice of the Grass 42 

Rogers, Samuel. 

Born near London, July 30, 1763; died in London, Dec. 18, 1855. 

A Wish 340 

Rodd, Rennell. 

Lives in England. 

A Song of Autumn 293 

At Tiber Mouth 750 

In Chartres Cathedral 777 

Ronsard, Pierre. (French.) 

Born in Vendouaois, France, in 1524; died in 1585. 

Return of Spring. {Anonymous translation.) 3 

Ropes, A. R. 

Lives in England. 

In Pace 730 

Roscoe, William. 

Born ill Mount Pleasant, near Liverpool, 1753; died June 30, 1S31. 

On the Death of Bums 689 

Roscoe, "William Stanley. 

Born in England in 17»2 ; died in October, 1843. 

Dirge 551 

Rossetti, Christina Gabriella. 

Born in London in December, 1830. 

Dream-land 562 

Salis, Johann Gaudenz von. (German.) 

Born in Grisons, Switzerland. Dec. 20, 1762; died Jan. 29, 1834. 

Song of the Silent Land. (Longfellow's transla- 
tion.) 539 

Sappho. (Greek.) 

Bom in Lesbos in the sixth century before Christ. 

Blest as the Immortal Gods. (.4. Phillips's trans- 
lation.) 261 

Scott, Lady John (born Alicia Spottiswoode). 

Bom near Edinburgh about 1815. 

When Thou art Near Me 258 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Bom in Edinbur^'h, Aug. 15, 1771 ; died Sept. 21, 1332. 

Jock of Hazeldean 238 

Lochinvar 238 

The Outlaw 2:W 

Song — The heath this night 264 

Song — A weary lot is thine 303 

Bonnets of Bf)nnie Dundee 375 

Border Ballad 379 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 379 

Coronach ^>< 

Proud Maisie is in the Wood 555 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 814 

Sewall, Harriet Winslow (born Winslow). 
Bom in Portland, Me., June 30, 1819. Lives in Boston. 

Why thus Loncrms ? 740 

Shakespeare, "William. 

Bom ill Stratford-on-Avon, England, about April 23,1564; died 
April 23, 1616. 

Mominc 10 

Sonir — The Greenwood Tree 44 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind 105 

Sonnets 163 

Sonnets 242 

Come away. Death 2.57 

Sonw — How should I your tnie love know 2.57 

Crabbed Age and Youth 284 






PAGE 

Shakespeare, William. — (^Continued.) 

Dirge of Imogen 550 

Song of the Fairy 578 

Ariel's Songs 595 

Influence of Music 669 

Who is Sylvia ? 675 

Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 

Take, oh take those Lips away 2.52 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Born in Field Place, England, Aug. 4, 1792; drowned in the Bay 
of Spezzia, Italy, July 8, 1S22. 

To the Skvlark 10 

Arethusa 24 

The Question 27 

The Cloud 03 

Ode to the West Wind 65 

Autumn — A Dirge 87 

The Sensitive Plant 87 

To Night 99 

Dirge for the Year 108 

Hymn to the Spirit of Nature 109 

Lines to an Indian Air 262 

Love's Philosophy 203 

To 263 

Lament 561 

Lament 562 

To Constantia Singing 672 

Hymn to Intellectual "Beaut}- 709 

Song — Rarely, rarely comest thou 710 

Mutability 738 

Shenstone, William. 

Bora in Hales-Owen, England, in 1714 ; died Feb. 11, 1763. 

The Schoolmistress 133 

Written at an Inn at Henley 733 

Shepherd, Nathaniel Graham. 

Lives in New York. 

A Summer Reminiscence 274 

Roll-Call 394 

Shirley, James. 

Born in London about 1594 ; died Oct. 09, 1666. 

Victorious Men of Earth 650 

Death's Final Conquest 763 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

Dbrn in Penshurst, England, Nov. 09, 1554 ; died Oct. 7, 1586. 

Sonnets 244 

Simmons, Bartholomew. 

Author of " Legends, Lyrics, and other Poems," Edicburph, 1843. 

Stanzas to the ;Memory of Thomas Hood 558 

Simonides. (Greek.) 

Bora in Julis, Island of Cos, b. c. 554 ; died n. c. 469. 

DanaS. ( !»'. Peter's translation.) 141 

Smith, Charlotte. 

Born in Sussex, England, In 1749 ; died in 1806. 

The Nightingale's Departure 42 

Smith, Horace. 

Born in London. Dec. SI, 1779 ; died July 10, 1689. 

HjTiin to the Flowers 37 

On the Death of (Jeorce III •«< 

Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition. . . 039 

Smith, Sydney. 

Born in Essex, England, June 3, 1771 ; died in London, Feb. $2, 
1S45. 

Receipt for Salad •♦OS 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXIX 



PAGE 

Smits, Dirk. (IXtch.) 

Born in Rotterdam, June 00. 1702 ; died April 25, 1752. 

On the Death of au Infant. {H. S. Van Dyk's 
translation.) 149 

Somerville, William. 

Born in Edstoiie, England, in 1692; died July 19, 1*49. 

The White Rose 248 

Southey, Caroline Bowles. 

Born in Bnckland, England, Dec. 6, 1787 ; died July 20, 1854. 

Autumn Flowers 88 

The Panper-s Death-Bed 539 

The Last Journey 539 

Southey, Robert. ^^ 

Born in Bristol, England, Aug. 12, 1774; died March 21, 1843. 

The Holl\ -Tree 105 

The Inchcape Rock 520 

The Battle of Blenheim 649 

My Days among the Dead 768 

Southey, Robert and Caroline. 

The Greenwood Shrift 766 

Spencer, William Robert. 

Bern in England in 1770; died in 1S34. 

To Ladv Anne Hamilton 170 

Beth Gelert 517 

Spenser, £dmund. 

Bom in Eondon in 1553 ; died Jan. 16, 1599. 

Our Love shall Live 242 

Sonnet 332 

Epithalamion 334 

Stanley, Thomas. 

Bora in Cumberlow Green, England, in 1625 ; died April 12, 1678. 

The Tomb 257 

Sterling, John. 

Born in Karnes Castle, Scotland, July 20, 1806 ; died Sept. 18, 1S44. 

The Spice-Tree 56 

The Husbandman 82 

To a Child 122 

The Rose and the Gauntlet 313 

Alfred the Harper 356 

D;Bdalus 508 

The Two Oceans 641 

Shakespeare 679 

Sternhold, Thomas. 

Born in Hampshire, England ; died in August, 1549. 

Psalm XVIII. Part First 839 

Still, John. 

Born in Grantham, England, in 1543 ; died in 1607. 

Good Ale 428 

Stoddard, "Lavinia. 

Born in Guilford, Conn., June 29, 1757 ; died in 1820. 

The Soul's Defiance 737 

Stoddard, Richard Henry. 

Bom in Hingham, Mass., July, 1825. 

The Sea 517 

There are Gains for all our Losses 737 

Stoddart, Thomas Tod. 

born in Edinhnrgh, Frb. 14, IslO. Lives in Kelso. 

The Anglers Trysting-Tree 13 

Story, W^illiam W. 

Born in Sslem, Mass., Feb. 19, 1819. 

The Violet 34 



PAGE 

Strode, William. 

Bom in England in 1600 ; died in 1644. 

Music 669 

Strong, Im C. 

Lives in the United States. 

West Point 295 

Suckling, Sir John. 

Born in Whitton, England, in 1609; died May 7, 1641. 

Song — Why so pale 285 

Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of. 

Born in England about 1516; died Jan. 'j1, 1547. 

Description of Spring 3 

\ The Means to Attain Happy Life 698 

Surville, Clotilde de. (Frekch.) 

Born ill VaJlon-sur-.'.rdeche, Frame, .ibout 1405 ; died in 1495. 

The Child Asleep. {Longfelloir's translation. ) 118 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 

Born in London, England, April o, 1837. 

"UTien the Hounds of Spring 4 

A Forsaken Garden 91 

A Match. 2cl 

Soul and Body 639 

Sylvester, Joshua. 

Bcm in England in 1563 ; died in 1618. 

A Contented Mind 702 

Tannahill, Robert. 

Bern iu Paisley, Scotland, June 3, 1774 ; died May 17, ISIO. 

The Midges Dance aboon the Bum 64 

Tate and Brady. 

Nahum Tate, bcm in Dublin in 1652 ; died Aug. 12, 1715. Brady, 
born in Bandon, Ireland, Oct. £8, 1669 ; died May 20, 17i6. 

Psalm C 842 

Taylor, Bayard. 

Bom in Kennett Square, Pa., Jan. 11, 1S25 ; died in Berlin, Ger- 
many, Dec. 19, 1S7S. 

The Arab to the Palm 5<5 

Storm-Song 6S 

The Phantom 554 

Hylas 610 

Taylor, Sir Henry. 

Bom in Durham, England, in 1800. 

In Remembrance of the Hon. Edward Ernest Vil- 

liers 544 

Song — Down lay in a nook 726 

Taylor, Jeremy. 

Bom in C.imbridge, England, in 1613; died Aug. 13, 16f7. 

Of Heaven 830 

Tennyson, Alfred. 

Born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, Aug. 5, 1S09. 

Spring 4 

Song of the Brook 26 

Bugle-Song 96 

Evening 9" 

SoncT _^The Owl KM 

Second Song, to the same \0i 

Lullabv 114 

The Widow and Child 159 

The Reconciliation ISO 

From " In Memoriam " 105 

The Dav-Dream 22e 

The Letters 041 

Come into the Garden. Maud '^Tl 

• The Miller'.* Daughter 277 

Ask me no More. 3lXl 



XXX 



I2^WEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

Tennyson, Alfred.— (Continued.) 

Mariana in the South 302 

Locksley Hall 303 

Oh, that it were Possible 308 

My Love has Talked 3:39 

Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava 402 

The May Queen 529 

A Dirge 549 

Break. Break, Break 566 

The Day.s that are no more 566 

Morte d" Arthur 571 

The Lady of Shallott 597 

Tithonus 630 

Ulysses 631 

The Lotus-Eaters 631 

Contemplate all this Work 744 

The Strife 764 

Christmas 812 

Oh, yet we Trust 821 

Mary 822 

Tersteegen, Gerhard. (German.) 

Born in Westphalia in 1507 ; was a ribbon-weaver. 

Divine Love. (./. Wesky^s translation.) 824 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. 

Born in Calcutta in ISll ; died \a London, Dec 24, 1S63. 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 176 

The Mahogany Tree 181 

At the Church Gate 27.5 

The White Squall 468 

The Battle of Limerick 474 

Molony".s Lament 475 

Mr. MolonvV Account of the Ball 476 

The Age of Wisdom 729 

Vanita^ Vanitatum 729 

The End of the Play 735 

Thaxter, Celia (bom Laightox). 

A native and resident of the Isles of Shoals, N. H. 

The Sand-Piper 71 

The Sunrise never Failed us yet 773 

Thurlow, Ix>rd (Edward HovELL-THfRLOW). 

Bern -n England, June 10, 1781 ; died June 3, 1329. 

Song to May 8 

Sonnet — The crimson moon 100 

Sonnet — To n bird that haunted Lake Laaken — 107 

Sonnet — Immortal beauty 67o 

Sonnet — The nightingale'is mute 693 

Sonnet — Who best can paint 695 

Toplady, Ang^ustus Montagfue. 

Born in Farchaai, England, in 1740; died Aug. 1'., 1778. 

A Prayer, Living and Dying 807 

Trench, Richard Chenevix. 

Cora in Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 9, 1807. Is Archbishop of Dublin. 

Ilarmosan 637 

Our Father's Home 831 

Trowbridge, John Townsend. 

Born ir. Ogden, N. Y., Sept. IS, ISS". Lives In Arlington, Mass. 

]SIid9:nnmer 43 

At Sea .- 68 

Tyrwhitt, Reginald St. John. 

Lives in England. 

The Glory of Motion 61 

Uhland, Johann Ludwig. (German.) 

Bom i:i Tubingen, Germany, April 26, 17S7 ; died there, Nov. 18, 
18G2. 

The Passage. Cl/r.«. A'fofin's translation.') 168 

The Castle by the Sea. {LonrrfeUou-s trannlat'wn.). 563 
The Lost Church. (Sarah H. Whitmans trans- 
lation.) 749 



PAGE 

Vandegrift, Margaret. 

Lives in Philadelphia. 

The Dead Doll 116 

Vaughan, Henry. 

Born in Newton, England, in 1621 ; died In 1695, 

Rules and Lessons 789 

The Feast 805 

Thev are all Gone &30 

Peace 836 

Very, Jones. 

Born in Saleai, Mass., Aug. 28, 1813 ; died May 8, 1880. 

Nature 31 

The Latter Eain 92 

The World 748 

The Spirit-Land 792 

Vincente, Gil. (PoRTUGrESE.) 

Born in Portugal about 14S2; died about 1537. 

She is a Maid. {Longfellow's translation.) 276 

Wakefield, Nancy A. W. (born Priest). 

Born in Hinsdale, N.H., in 1837; died in 1870. 

Over the River 781 

Walker, William Sidney. 

Bom in England in 1795 ; died in 1846. 

Thou wert Lovely on thy Bier 774 

Waller, Edmund. 

Bom in Coleshill, England, March 3, 1605; died Oct. 21, 1687. 

The Rose 34 

Waller, John Francis. 

A barrister of Dublin.; bom about ISIO. 

The Spinning-Wheel Song 236 

An Irish .Alolody 271 

Walton, Izaak. 

Con. ia Stafford, England, Aug. 9, 1593; died Dec. 15, 1683. 

The Angler's Wish 14 

Warton, Thomas. 

Born in B.isingstoke, England, In 172£ ; died May SI, 1790. 

Inscription in a Hermitage 48 

Wastel, Simon. 

Born ia Westmoreland, England, about 15i)0; died about 1630. 

Man's Mortality TT'Z 

Watts, Isaac. 

Bom in Southampton, England, July 17, 1674; died Nov. 25, 1748. 

A Cradle Song 160 

Jesus shall Reign 800 

The Example of Christ 807 

The Heavenly Canaan &32 

Psalm XIX *10 

Psalm XL^^ 841 

Psalm LXV. Second Part >W2 

Psalm CXVII 843 

TIk' Creator and Creatures 844 

Waugh, Edwin. 

Bom in Rochdale, England, Jan. 29, 1818. 

Tilt" Dule 's i" this Bonnet o' Mine 271 

Wesley, Charles. 

Bern in Lincolnshire, England, in 170S ; died in 1788. 

Wrestling Jacob 803 

Jesus. Lover of my Soul 808 

Friend of All 809 

The True U-se of Music 818 

Desirinrj to Love 823 

For Befievers 824 

Death 828 

Thou God Unsearchable . . 851 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXI 



PAGE 

Westwood, Thomas. 

Bom in Englaud in 1814, 

Under m v Window 145 

Little Bell 147 

White, Joseph Blanco. 

Born ia Spain about 1773 ; died in England, May 20, 1340. 

To Night 101 

"White, Henry Klrke. 

Born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785; died Oct. 19, 1806. 

To the Harvest Moon 100 

Solitude 561 

Whitman, Sarah Helen (born Power). 

Born in Providence, R. I., in 1803; died there in 1S78. 

A Still Day in Autumn 82 

Sons — I bade thee stay 293 

The'^Old Mirror 565 

Wliitman, Walt. 

Born in West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819. 

Vigil Strange I Kept 397 

A Sight in Camp 397 

An Old-Fashioned Sea-Fight 404 

Great are the [Nlvtha 634 

The Myotic Trumpeter 669 

Death Carol 786 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Bom ill Haverhijl, Mass., Dec. 17, 1807, 

Hampton Beach 72 

Maud Miiller 314 

Our State .^ 392 

The Battle Autumn of 1862 393 

Barbara Frietchie 395 

Ichabod 554 

Barclay of Ury 635 

To mvSister 677 

Bums 691 

Seed-Time and Harvest 7.58 

My P!?alm 815 

Wilde, Oscar. 

Born in Dublin in 184S. 

Ave Imperatrix ! 400 

Wilde, Richard Henrj'. 

Bom in Dublin, Sept. U, 178.i ; died in Xew Orleans, Sept. 10, 1847. 

Stanzas — My life is like 738 

Willard, Emma (born Hart). 

Born in Berlin, Conn., Feb. 26, 1787 ; died in Troy, N. Y., April 
15, 1870. 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 808 

Williams, Helen Maria. 

Born in England in 1762 ; died in Paris in 1837. 

Trust in Providence 820 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Born in Portland, Me., Jan. 20, 1807 ; died near Newbnrgb, N. Y., 
Jan. 21, 1867. 

The Belfry Pigeon .52 

Saturday Afternoon 1.32 

The Annoycr 287 

Willmott, Robert Arls. 

Died in Oxfordshire, England, May 28, 1868. 

A Child Praying 158 

Wither, George. 

Bern in Bentworth, England, Jnne 11, 1588 ; died May 2, 1667. 

Christmas 183 

Th<? Shei)herd's Resolution 285 

The Shepherd's Hunting 679 



L 



PAGE 

Wither, George.— (Continued.) 

In a Clear Starry Night 794 

Twelfth Day, or the Epiphany 799 

For a Widower or Widow 829 

Wolfe, Charles. 

Born in Dublin, Dec. 14, 1791 ; died Feb. 21. 1823. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 5.56 

Song — Oh say not that my heart 739 

Woodworth, Samuel. 

Bom iu Scitnate, Mass., Jan. 13, 1785 ; died Dec. 9, 1842. 

The Bucket 652 

Wordsworth, William. 

Boru in Cockermouth, Cumberland, England, April 7, 1770; died 
April -'3, 1860. 

March 5 

Morning in London 9 

To the Cuckoo 16 

To the Small Celandine 28 

Daffodils 30 

On a Picture of Peel Caetle in a Storm 70 

Yarrow Unvisited 74 

Yarrow Visited 75 

Yarrow Revisited 76 

On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye 78 

Fidelity 81 

Influence of Natural Objects 109 

To Hartley Coleridge 121 

The Pet Lamb 124 

Her Eyes are Wild 141 

Lucy Gray 143 

We are Seven 145 

Lucy 148 

Laodamia 329 

Sonnets 417 

The World is too Much with Us 629 

The Solitary Reaper 676 

She was a Phantom of Delight 676 

Resolution and Independence 695 

The Tables Turned 715 

The Fountain 716 

Ode to Duty 739 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality 7.58 

The Laborer's Noonday Hymn 815 

Wotton, Sir Henrj-. 

Bom at Boughton Hall, England, March 30, 1568 ; died In Decem- 
ber, 1 639. 

Verses in Praise of Angling !•* 

You Meaner Beauties 252 

The Happy Life "36 

Xavier, St. Francis (Latix.') 

Born in Xavier, Navarre, in 1506; died Dec. 2, 1552. 

Mv God. I Love Thee. (Edward Casuell's trans- 
htion.) 802 

Youl, Edward. 

A writer In " Howitl's Journal," London, 1847- '48. 

Song of Spring 31 

Anonymous. 

Bailiff's Dauehter of Islington. The. {18th Cen- 

(itry. Ell nlish.') 206 

Balder. (19^// Century. Enr/lhh.) 6.38 

Be Patient. (W/i Centuri/. Eng/inh.) 748 

Bonnie George Canipbell. {\7f/i Century, Scottish.) 496 

Bridal of Andalla. The. [Spnnis/t.) 221 

Bull-Fiirht of (iazul. The. (.■^pnnhfi.) .3.58 

Charlie is mv Darlinsr. (18//i Century. Scottuth.). . 376 

Chevy Chase. \\^th Century. Enolhh.) 359 

Children in the Wood, The. (l7^/< Century. Eng- 

IWi.) 138 

Coming through the Rye. (18/A Century, Scottish.) 288 



xxxu 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

AnonjT3ioiis.—( Continued.) 

Cruel Sister. The. {loth Century. Scottish.) 493 

Deceitfulness of Love, The. {17th Century, Eng- 
lish.) 286 

Douglas Tragedy. The. {16th Century, Scottish.). 491 
Dowie Dens of Yarrow, (loth Centui-y. Scottish.). 488 
Dragon of Wantley. The. {nth Century. English.) 427 

Edward. Edward. {l%th Century, Scottish.) 494 

Essence of Opera. {French.) 463 

Evening. {I'dth Century. English) 793 

Fair Helen. {Wh Century. Scottish.) 497 

Fairies" Song. (17th Century, English.) 578 

Fairy Queen. The. (17th Century. English.) 577 

Fate. {19fh Century. English.).. 258 

First and Last. (19th Century. English.) 303 

Gallant Grahams. The. (ISth Century, Scottish.). 377 

George Nidiver. {19th Century. American.) 416 

God IS Love. (19th Centui^. English.) 847 

God Save the King. (17th Century, English.) 3S4 

Heir of Linne. The. (16th Century, English.) 423 

Heliotrope. (19th Century. American.) 315 

How Stands the Glass Around, (l^h Century, 

English.) 174 

I Journey through a Desert. (19th Century, Eng- 
lish.) .' 803 

In the Desert of the Holy Land. (19th Century, 

A merican.) 811 

Jovial Beggar. The. (18fh Century. English.) 429 

King Arthur's Death, (loth Century, English.) .. 569 
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. (17th 

Century. English.) 426 

Kulnasatz. my Reindeer. (Icelandic.) 261 

Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament. il7th Century, 

Scottish.) 140 

Lamentation for Celin. (Spanish.) 509 

Lament of the Border Widow, (l'*'^^ Century, 

Scottish.) 497 

Life and Death. (19fh Century, English.) 766 

Little Bov Blue. {19fh Century. English.) 126 

Lord Lovel. (Idth Century. English.) 204 

Lord Randal. d.V/t Century. Scottish.) 492 

Lords of Thule. The. ( German.) 637 

Love Me Little. Love Me Long. (IQth Century, 

English.) 250 

Love not Me. (17 fh Century. English.) 258 

Maiden's Choice. The. (18th Century, English.). . 2&4 

Malbrouck. (Eren<:h.) 430 

Memorable Dessert. A. (19th Century, English.). 288 
Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow, The." {17th 

Century, English.) 576 

New Jerusalem. The. (Latin.) 832 

Oh. Fear not Thou to Die. (19th Century, English.) 825 
Old and Young Courtier, The. {YHh Century, 
English.) 431 



PAGE 

Anonymous. —(Continued.) 

Old Storv. The. (19th Century. Irish.) 237 

Orisrin of Ireland, The. (19^^ Centuiy, Iruh!)... . 470 

OwT. The. (17th Century, English.) 102 

Prince Eugene. (18th Century. German.) 366 

Rare Willv DrowTied in Yarrow. (15^/i Century, 

Scottish'.) 491 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. (15/A Century. 

English.) 204 

Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes. (19^^ Cen- 
tury. English.) 478 

Sea-Fight. The. (19^A Century, English.). ...' 405 

Seaman's Happy Return, The. (17^/i Century, 

English.) 216 

Shan Van Vocht. The. {18th Century. Irish.).. . . 385 

Sir Patrick Spens. (15^^ Century, Scottish.) 487 

Skeleton. Lines on a. (19th Century. Enrdish.) . . . 776 
Smoking Spiritualized. {17th Century, English.).. 720 

Song of the Forge. (19/^^ Century, English.) 644 

Spanish Ladv's^Love, The. (15//( Century, Eng- 
lish.) .■ 209 

Sturdy Rock, The. (nth Centuiy, English.) 7^2 

Summer Days. {19th Centu)^. English.) 274 

Sunrise Comes To-Morrow. (19th Century. Eng- 
lish.) 651 

Svr Cauline. (14^^ Century. English.) 195 

Take thv Old Cloake about Thee. (15^Zi Century, 

English.) 429 

Thomas the Rhjmer. {16th Century. Scottish.)... 574 
Time is a Feathered Thing. (17^^ Century, Enq- 

lish) .- '.. 737 

Time's Cure. (19^^ Century. English.) 736 

True-hearted Ben. (19th Century. English.) 470 

Truth's Integrity. (16th Century. Engli.fh.) 206 

Twa Brothers, the. (loth Century. .Scottish.) 495 

Twa Corbies, The. (15^/i Century. Scottish.) 496 

Verv Mournful Ballad, A. (Spanish.) 519 

Vicar of Bray. The. (18th Century. English.).. . . 479 
Walv. walv, but Love be Bonnv. (15^A Century. 

Scottish') '. 311 

Wee. Wee Man. The. (loth Century. Scottish.). . . 575 
When Banners are Waving. (17th Century, Scot- 
tish.) 373 

"VSTien shall We Three Meet again ? {18th Cen- 
tury. English.) 163 

When the Grass shall Cover Me. (19th Century, 

English.) 3^4 

Willies Visit to Melville Castle. (17th Century. 

Scottish.) 455 

Wmifreda. (18th Century. English.) 333 

Young Airly. (18th Century. Scottish.) 526 

Young Beichan and Susie Pye. (Ibth Century, 

English.) 200 

Zara's Ear-rings. (Spanish.) 225 



PAET 1. 
P E }»r S OF NATURE. 



O VAST rondure, swimming in space. 

Covered all over with visible power and beauty ; 

Alternate light and day, and the teeming, spiritual darknesg ; 

Unspeakable, high processions of sun and moon, and countless stars, abo%e j 

Below, the manifold grass and waters, animals, mocmtains, trees ; 

With inscrutable purpose, some hidden, prophetic intention ; — 

Now first, it seems, my thought begins to span thee. 

Walt Whitmax. 



r" 



n 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Slcscriptian of Spiring. 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 

With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 

The turtle to her make hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 

The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 

Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 

Henry Hoavard, Earl of Surrey. 



®l]c ^irs of Spring. 

Sweetly breathing, vernal air. 
That with kind warmth doth repair 
Winter's ruins ; from whose breast 
All the gums and spice of th' East 
Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky ; 
Whose dishevelled tresses shed 
Pearls upon the violet bed; 
On who^e brow, with calm smiles drcst. 
The halcyon sits and builds her nest ; 
Beauty, youtli. and endless spring. 
Dwell upon thy rosy wing ! 



Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
Down whole forests when he blows, 
With a pregnant, flowery birth. 
Canst refresh the teeming earth. 
If he nip the early bud ; 
If he blast what's fair or good ; 
If he scatter our choice flowers ; 
If he shake our halls or bowers ; 
If his rude breath threaten us. 
Thou canst stroke great ^olus. 
And from him the grace obtain, 
To bind him in an iron chain. 

Thomas Carew, 



Bcturn of Giving. 

God shield ye, heralds of the spring, 
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing, 

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, 
Turtles, and every wilder bird, 
That make your hundred chirpings heard 

Through the green wooas and dales. 

God shield ye. Easter daisies all, 
Fair nx^^es, bucis, and blosscnns small. 

And he whom ei*st the gore 
Of Ajax and Xarciss did print. 
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint, 

I welcome ye oiut^ more. 

God shield ye. bright, embroidered train 
Of butterflies, that <n\ the plain. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Of each sweet herblet sip ; 
And ye, new swarms of bees, that go 
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow, 

To kiss thera with your lip. 

A hundred thousand times I call 
A hearty welcome on ye all : 

This season how I love. 
This merry din on every shore, 
For winds and storms, whose sullen roar 

Forbade my steps to rove. 

Pierre Ron:-ard (French). 
Anonymous Translation. 



Spring. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
sweet new year, delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong. 

Delaying long : delay no more. 

^^'hat stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove s}-)ire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

Antl flood a fresher throat with sons:. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow. 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

N.'tw dance the lights on lawn and lea. 

The flocks are whiter down the vale. 

And milkier every milky sail. 
On winding stream or distant sea: 



Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood, that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too : and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



tolKU tlic ^annbs of Gpring. 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 
The mother of months in meadow or plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With a clamor of waters, and with might ; 
Bind on thy sandals. thou most fleet, 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. 

TMiere shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, 
Fold our hands round her knees and cling? 

Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring 
to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
And the south-west wind and the west wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by ])lossom the spring begins. 



APRIL. 5 


The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 


Small clouds are sailing, 


Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 


Blue sky prevailing ; 


The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 


The rain is over and gone ! 


From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 


W1LLLA.JI Wordsworth. 


And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 




And the oat is heard above the lyre. 




And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 


^^A • 1 


The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 


^;jnl. 


And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 


Lessons sweet of Spring returning. 


Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 


Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! 


Follows witli dancing and fills with delight 


May I call ye sense or learning, 


The Miunad and the Bassarid ; 


Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art ? 


And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 


Be your title what it may. 


The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 


Sweet and lengthening April day, 


And screen from seeing and leave in sight 


While with you the soul is free. 


The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 


Ranging wild o'er hill and lea ; 


The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 


Soft as Memnon's harp at morning. 


Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; 


To the inward ear devout. 


The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 


Touched by light with heavenly warning, 


Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 


Your transporting choi-ds ring out. 


The wild vine slips with the w^eight of its leaves. 


Every leaf in every nook. 


But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 


Every wave in every brook, 


To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 


Chanting with a solemn voice. 


The wolf that follows, the fa\vn that flies. 


Minds us of our better choice. 


Algernon Charles Swinburne. 






Xeeds no show of mountain hoary, 




Winding shore or deepening glen. 


iHarcl). 


Wliere the landscape in its glory, 
Teaches truth to wandering men. 


The cock is crowing, 


Give true hearts but earth and sky, 


The stream is flowing, 


And some flowers to bloom and die, 


The small birds twitter, 


Homely scenes and simple views 


The lake doth glitter. 


Lowly thoughts may best infuse. 


The green field sleeps in the sun ; 




The oldest and youngest 


See the soft green willow springing 


Are at work with the strongest; 


Where the waters gently pass. 


The cattle are grazing. 


Every way her free arms flinging 


Their heads never raising ; 


O'er the moss and reedy grass ; 


There are forty feeding like one I 


Long ere winter blasts arc fled, 


' 


See her tii)ped with vernal red, 


Like an army defeated 


And her kindly flower displayed 


The snow hath retreated, 


Ere her leaf can cast a sha<.Ie. 


And now doth fare ill 




On the top of the bare hill ; 


Though the rudest hand assail her, 


The ploughboy is whooping — .anon — anon 


Patiently she droops awhile, 


There's joy on the mountains ; 


But when showers and breezes hail her. 


There's life in the fountains ; 


Wears again her winning smile. 



6 POEMS OF NATURE. 




Thus I learn contentment's power 






From the slighted willow lx)wer, 


Song : ©n SWa'^ i^lovning. 




Ready to give thanks and live 

On the least that Heaven may give. 


Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 




If. the quiet brooklet leaving, 


The flow^ery May, who from her green lap throws 




Up the stormy vale I wind, 


The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 




Haply half in fancy grieving 


Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire 




For the shades I leave l^ehind, 


Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 




By the dusty wayside dear, 


Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 




Nightingales with joyous cheer 


Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 




Sing, my sadness to reprove, 


Thus we salute thee with our early song, 




Gladlier than in cultured grove. 


And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 




Where the thickest boughs are twining 


John Milton. 




Of the greenest, darkest tree, 


« 




There they plunge, the light declining — 






All may hear, but none may see. 


^ Drop of Dcu). 




Fearless of the passing hoof. 
Hardly will they fleet aloof ; 
So they live in modest ways. 
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. 

John Keble. 


See how the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 
Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new 
For the clear region where 'twas born) 
Round in itself incloses. 




S^jring. 


And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 




Behold the young, the rosy Spring, 


How it the purple flower does slight, 




Gives to the breeze her scented wing. 


Scarce touching where it lies ; 




While virgin graces, warm with May, 


But gazing back upon the skies. 




Fling roses o'er her dewy way. 


Shines with a mournful light. 




The murmuring biljows of the deep 


Like its own tear, 




Have languished into silent sleep ; 


Because so long divided from the sphere ; 




And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave 


Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 




Their plumes in the reflecting wave ; 


Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 




While cranes from hoary winter fly 


Till the warm sun pities its pain, 




To flutter in a kinder sky. 


And to the skies exhales it back again. 




Now the genial star of day 


So the soul, that drop, that ray. 




Dissolves the murky clouds away. 


Of the clear fountain of eternal day. 




And cultured field and winding stream 


Could it within the human flower be seen, 




Are freshly glittering in his beam. 


Remembering still its former height, 




Now the earth prolific swells 


Shuns the .sweet leaves and blossoms green, 




With leafy buds and flowery bells; 


And, recollecting its own light. 




Gemming shoots the olive twine ; 


Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, ex- 




Clusters bright festoon the vine ; 


press 




All along the branches creeping, 


The greater heaven in a heaven less. 




Through the velvet foliage peeping. 


In how coy a figure wound, 




Little infant fruits we see 


Every way it turns away ; 




Nursing into luxury. 


So the world excluding round, 




Translation of Tuomas Moore. Anacheon. 


Yet receiving m the day. 





31 A Y 



Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ! 
How girt and ready to ascend ! 
Moving but on a point below, 
It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, 
White and entire, although congealed and chill- 
Congealed on earth, but does dissolving run 
Into the glories of the Almighty sun. 

Andrew Marvell. 



Song. 

Phcebus, arise, 

And paint the sable skies 

With azure, white, and red, 

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed, 

That she thy career may with roses spread, 

The nightingales thy coming each where sing 

Make an eternal spring. 

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 

Spread forth thy golden hair 

In larger locks than thou was wont before. 

And, emperor-like, decore 

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 

Chase hence the ugly night, 

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 

This is that happy morn, 

That day, long-wished day, 

Of all my life so dark, 

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, 

And fates my hopes betray,) 

Which, purely white, deserves 

An everlasting diamond should it mark. 

This is the morn should bring unto this grove 

My love, to hear, and recompense my love. 

Fair king, who all preserves, 

But show thy blushing beams, 

And thou tAvo sweeter eyes 

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 

Did once thy heart surprise : 

Nay, suns, which shine as clear 

As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear. 

Now, Flora, deck tliyself in fairest guise. 

If that ye winds would hear 

A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre, 

Your furious chiding stay ; 



Let Zephyr only breathe. 

And with her tresses play. 

Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death. 

The winds all silent are, 

And Phoebus in his chair 

Ensaffroning sea and air, 

Makes vanish every star : 

Night like a drunkard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. 

The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, 

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue : 

Here is the pleasant place. 

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas ! 

William Drummoxd. 

Spring. 

Now the lusty Spring is seen ; 

Golden yellow, gaudy blue, 

Daintily invite the view. 
Everywhere, on every green, . 

Roses blushing as they blow, 

And enticing men to pull ; 
Lilies whiter than the snow ; 

Woodbines of sweet honey full — 
All love's emblems, and all cry : 
Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



ill at). 

I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail. 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 

From his blue throne of air, 
And where his whisi^ering voice in music falls, 
Beauty is budding there ; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain. 

And the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 

A canopy of leaves ; 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And from its darkening shadow floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 

The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west- wind play, 
And the full-brimming floods, 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 

James Gates Percival. 



Song to iXia'Q^. 

May, queen of blossoms, 

And fulfilling flowers, 
With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours ? 
Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 
Blown in the open mead ? 
Or to the lute give heed 

In the green bowers ? 

Thou hast no need of us. 

Or pipe or wire, 
That hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore, 
Filling earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds, 

Tame, and free livers ; 
Doubt not, thy music too 

In the deep rivers ; 
And the whole plumy flight, 
Warbling the day and night — 
Up at the gates of light, 

See, the lark quivers ! 

^\Tien with the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tressed : 

And for the meurnf ul bird 
Greenwoods are dressed, 

That did for Tereus pine ; 

Then shall our songs be thine, 

To whom our hearts incline : 
May, be thou blessed ! 

Lord Thurlow. 



Summer longings. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant ha^vthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart i^ sick with longing, 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May — 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 
Sighing for the May. 

Ah 1 my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows ; 
WTiere in laughing and in sobbing, 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
ThrolDbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 

Waiting for the May : 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away ; 

Man is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the May ! 

Denis Florence MacCariht. 



THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 9 


^Ciiglit is nigl) gone. 


iHorning in £onbon. 


Hey, now the day's dawning ; 


Earth has not anything to show more fair : 


The jolly cock's crowing ; 


Dull would he be of soid who could pass by 


The eastern sky's glowing ; 


A sight so touching in its majesty : 


Stars fade one by one ; 


This city now doth, like a garment, wear 


The thistle-cock's crying 


The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 


On lovers long lying, 


Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 


Cease vowing and sighing ; 


Open imto the fields, and to the sky, 


The night is nigh gone. 


All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 




Never did sun more beautifully steep, 


The fields are o'erflowing 


In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 


With gowans all glowing, 


Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 


And white lilies growing, 


The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 


A thousand as one ; 


Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 


The sweet ring-dove cooing, 


And all that mighty heart is lying still I 


His love notes renewing. 


William "Wordsworth. 


Now moaning, now suing ; 


/ 


The night is nigh gone. 






QTlje Sabbatli iHorning. 


The season excelling, 




In scented flowers smelling, 


With silent awe I hail the sacred mom, 


To kind love compelling 


That slowly wakes while all the fields are still. 


Our hearts every one ; 


A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 


With sweet ballads moving 


A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 


The maids we are loving. 


And echo answers softer from the hill ; 


Mid musing and roving 


And softer sings the linnet from the thorn : 


The night is nigh gone. 


The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 


• 


Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 


Of war and fair women 


The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 


The young knights are dreaming. 


The sun a placid yellow luster throws ; 


With bright breastplates gleaming, 


The gales that lately sighed along the grove, 


And plumed helmets on ; 


Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 


The barbed steed neighs lordly, 


The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move. 


And shakes his mane proudly, 


So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! 


For war-trumpets loudly 


John Letden. 


Say night is nigh gone. 




I see the flags flowing. 
The warriors all glowing, 


^Iic iltcrrti Gnmmcr fHonths. 


And, snorting and blowing, 


They come 1 the merry summer months of beauty, 


The steeds rushing on ; 


song, and flowers ; 


The lances are crashing, 


Thev come ! the gladsome months that bring thick 


Out broad bhides como flashing 


leafiness to bowers. 


Mid shouting and dashing ; 


Up, up, mv heart ! and walk abroad ; fling cark 


The night is nigh gone. 


and care aside ; 


Alexander Montgomert. 


Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful 


Version of Allan Cuxningham. 


waters glide ; 



10 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, 
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt 
tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the 
hand; 

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is 
sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- 
ously ; 

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and 
welcome thee ; 

And mark how with thine own thin locks — they 
now are silvery gray — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, 
" Be gay ! " 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon 
sky, 

But hath its o^vn winged mariners to give it mel- 
ody ; 

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 
gleaming like red gold ; 

And hark I with shrill pipe musical, their merry 
course they hold. 

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above 
this earth. 

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a no- 
bler mirth. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound — from yon- 
der wood it came ! 

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 
own glad name. 

Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart from all 
his kind, 

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west- 
ern wind ; 

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again — his notes are 
void of art ; 

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep 
founts of the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought- 
crazed wight like me. 

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this 
summer tree ! 

To suck once more in every breath their little souls 
away, 



And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's 
bright summer day. 

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reck- 
less, truant boy 

Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a 
mighty heart of joy I 

I'm sadder now — I have had cause ; but ! I'm 
proud to think 

That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore. I yet de- 
light to drink ; — 

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, 
unclouded sky, 

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days 
gone by. 

When summer's loveliness and light fall round 
me dark and cold, 

I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that 
hath waxed old ! 

WUXIAM MOTHER'W'ELL. 



iHorning. 

Hark — hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies : 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise. 

Arise, arise ! 

William Shakespeabe. 



Zo tlie Skijlark. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest. 

Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 



TO THE SKYLARK, 



11 



In tlie golden lightning 

Of the setting sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight, 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows . 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- 
flowed. 

Wliat thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; 

Like a high-bom maiden. 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her 
bower ; 

Like a glow-worm golden, 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from 
the view ; 



Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and fresh, and clear, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so di^•ine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumphant chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there fe some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 
pain? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee ; 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
- Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream : 
Or hew could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not ; 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 



12 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 

If we were things born 
Xot to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound ; 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. 

Teach me half the gladness 

Tliat thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



3:i)e Catk. 

Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet 1)6 thy matin o'er moorland and lea 1 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay, and loud, 
Far in the downy cloud ; 

Love gives it energy — love gave it birth ! 
Where, on thy dewy wing — 
Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven — thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green. 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 
Over the cloudlet dim. 
Over the rainljow's rim. 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be 1 
EmV)lem of hapj)iness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 



Song. 

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 

That bids a blithe good-morrow ; 
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark, 

To the soothing song of sorrow. 
nightingale I What doth she ail '? 

And is she sad or jolly ? 
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 

So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high. 

No worldly thought o'ertakes him : 
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky. 

And the daylight that awakes him. 
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay. 

The nightingale is trilling; 
With feeling bliss, no less than his, 

Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet ever and anon, a sigh 

Peers through her lavish mirth ; 
For the lark's bold song is of the sky. 

And hers is of the earth. 
By night and day she tunes her lay. 

To drive away all sorrow ; 
For bliss, alas ! to-niglit must pass. 

And woe may come to-morrow. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



Song. 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow ; 

Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow. 

Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow : 

Bird, prune thy wing; nightirjale, sing, 
To give my love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 



THE ANGLER. 13 


Blackbird and thrusli in every bush, 


Other joys 


Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 


Are but toys ; 


You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 


Only this 


Sing my fair love good-morrow. 


Lawful is ; 


To give my love good-morrow. 


For our skill 


Sing, birds, in every furrow. 


Breeds no ill, 


Thomas Heywood. 


But content and pleasure. 




In a morning, up we rise. 


^[\z Angler's ^rtisting-il^ree. 


Ere Aurora's peeping ; 
Drink a cup to wash our eyes, 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 


Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 


Meet the morn upon the lea ; 


Then we go, 


Are the emeralds of the spring 


To and fro, 


On the angler's trysting-tree ? 


With our knacks 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 


At our backs. 


Are there buds on our willow-tree ? 


To such streams 


Buds and birds on our trysting-tree ? 


As the Thames, 




If we have the leisure. 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 




Have you met the honey-bee, 


When we please to walk abroad 


Circling upon rapill wing. 


For our recreation ; 


'Round the angler's trysting-tree ? 


In the fields is our abode, 


Up, sweet thrushes, up and see. 


Full of delectation. 


Are there bees at our willow-tree ? 


AMiere, in a brook, 


Birds and bees at the trysting-tree ? 


With a hook — 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 


Or a lake, — 


Are the fountains gushing free ? 


Fish we take ; 


Is the south wind wandering 


There we sit, 


Through the angler's trysting-tree ? 


For a bit, 


Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me. 


Till we fish entangle. 


Is there wind up our willow-tree % 


We have gentles in a horn, 


Wind or calm at our trysting-tree? 




We have paste and worms too ; 


Sing, sweet thrushes, fortli and sing ! 


We can watch both night and morn, 


Wile us with a merry glee ; 


Suffer rain and storms too : 


To the flowery haunts of spring, 


None do here 


To the angler's trysting-tree. 


Use to swear, 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, 


Oaths do fray 


Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree f 


Fish away ; 


Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree 1 


We sit still, 


Thomas Tod Stoddart. 


Watch our quill : 




Fishers must not wrangle. 


2: lie Angler. 


If the sun's excessive heat 
Make our bodies swelter, 


! the gallant fisher's life. 


To an osior hedge we get. 


It is the best of any : 


For a friendly shelter : 


'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, 


Where — in a dyke, 


And 'tis beloved by many ; 


Perch or pike, 



14 



P0E3IS OF 2yfATURE. 



Roach or dace, 
We do chase, 
Bleak or gudgeon. 
Without grudging ; 
We are still contented. 

Or. we sometimes pass an hour 

Under a green willow, 
That defends us from a shower. 
Making earth our pillow ; 
Where we may 
Think and pray, 
Before death 
Stops our breath ; 
Other joys 
Are but toys, 
And to be lamented. 

John Chax,khill. 



bci'scs in Praise of Angling. 

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares. 
Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 

Fly, fly to courts. 

Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still. 
And Grief is forced to laugh against her will, 

Where mirth's but mummery. 

And sorrows only real be. 

Fly from our country pastimes, fly. 
Sad troops of human misery ; 

Come, serene looks. 

Clear as the crystal brooks, 
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see 
The rich attendance on our poverty ; 

Peace and a secure mind, 

Which all men seek, we only find. 

Abused mortals ! did you know 

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
You'd scorn proud towers 
And seek them in these bowers. 

Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may 
shake, 

But blustering care could never tempest make, 
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
Saving of fountains that glide by us. 



Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 

Nor wars are seen, 

Unless upon the green 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 
Which done, both bleating run, each to his 
mother ; 

And wounds are never found. 

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 

Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to too hasty fates ; 

Unless it be 

The fond credulity 
Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 

Nor envy, 'less among 

The birds, for price of their sweet song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 

We all pearls scorn 

Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 

And gold ne'er here appears. 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves, oh, may you be, 
For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 
May pure contents 
For ever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 

mountains ; 
And peace still slumber by these purling foun- 
tains. 
Which we raav every year 
Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

Sir Henrt Wotton. 



(JIk QVnglcr s ttlisli. 

I IN these flowery meads would be. 
These crystal streams should solace me; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I, with my angle, would rejoice. 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 



THE BOBOLINK. 15 


Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 


Calling out each bud and flower 


Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind, 


With resistless, secret power, 


To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 


Waking hope and fond desire, 


And then washed oif by April showers ; 


Kindling the erotic fire, 


Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 


Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 


There, see a blackbird feed her young, 


With mysterious, pleasing themes ; 




Then, amid the sunlight clear 


Or a laverock build her nest ; 


Floating in the fragrant air, 


Here, give my weary spirits rest. 


Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 


And raise ray low-pitched thoughts above 


By thy glad ecstatic measure. 


Earth, or what poor mortals love. 




Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 


A single note, so sweet and low, 


Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 


Like a full heart's overflow. 




Forms the prelude ; but the strain 


Or, with my Bryan and a book. 


Gives no such tone again, 


Loiter long days near Shawf ord brook ; 


For the wild and saucy song 


There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 


Leaps and skips the notes among, 


There see the sun both rise and set ; 


With such quick and sportive play, 


There bid good morning to next day ; 


Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 


There meditate my time away ; 




And angle on ; and beg to have 


Gayest songster of the Spring ! 


A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 


Thy melodies before me bring 


IzAAK Walton. 


Visions of some dream-built land. 




Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 




I might walk the livelong day. 




Embosomed in perpetual May. 


@^l)e Bobolink. 


Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 




For thee a tempest never blows ; 


Bobolink ! that in the meadow, 




Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 


But when our northern Summer's o'er, 


Keepest up a constant rattle 


By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 


Joyous as my children's prattle, 


The wild rice lifts its airy head. 


Welcome to the north again ! 


And royal feasts for thee are spread. 


Welcome to mine ear thy strain. 


And when the Winter threatens there. 


Welcome to mine eye the sight 


Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. 


Of thy buff, thy black and white. 


But bear thee to more southern coasts. 


Brighter plumes may greet the sun 


Far beyond the reach of frosts. 


By the banks of Amazon ; 




Sweeter tones may weave the spell 


Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 


Of enchanting Philomel ; 


Take from me all taints of siidness ; 


But the tropic bird would fail. 


Fill my soul with trust unshaken 


And the English nightingale, 


In that Being who ha^ taken 


If we should compare their worth 


Care for every living thing, 


With thine endless, gushing mirth. 


In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. 




TuoMA8 Hill. 


When the ides of May are past. 




June and Summer nearing fast, 




While from depths of blue above 




Comes the mighty breath of love, 





16 



FOEJIS OF XATURE. 



Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful vistant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, . 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou flicst thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands. 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the Spring. 

John Logan. 



^0 X\)c Cuckoo. 

BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 
Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 

Or but a wandering voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass, 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 

From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off, and near. 



Though babbling only to the vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same that in my schoolboy days 

I listened to — that cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways, 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and on the green ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love. 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

blessed bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place. 

That is fit home for thee ! 

William Wordsworth. 



^\)C Cuckoo. 

We heard it calling, clear and low, 
That tender April morn ; we stood 
And listened in the quiet wood. 

We heard it, ay, long years ago. 

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, 
A Friend, but from a far-off land ; 
We stood and listened, hand in hand, 

And heart to heart, my Love and I. 

In dreamland then we found our joy, 
And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird 
That Helen in old times had hoard 

At noon beneath the oaks of Trov. 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTIXGALE. 



17 



time far off, and yet so near ! 

It came to her in that hushed grove, 
It warbled while the wooing throve, 

It sang the song she loved to hear. 

And now I hear its voice again, 

And still its message is of peace, 
It sings of love that will not cease — 

For me it never sings in vain. 

Frederick Locker. 



Qri)c Cuckoo anb tl)c ^iigljtingalc. 

The God of Love, — ah henedicite ! 
How mighty and how great a lord is he ! 
For he of low hearts can make high ; of high 
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; 
And hard hearts, he can make them kind and free. 

\Yithin a little time, as hath been found, 

He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound : 

Them who are whole in body and in mind, 

He can make sick ; bind can he and unbind 

All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice ', 
Foolish men he can make them out of wise — 
For he may do all that he will de^^se ; 
Loose livers he can make abate their vice. 
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 

In brief, the whole of what he will he may ; 
xV gainst him dare not any wight say nay; 
To humble or afflict whomever he will, 
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. 

For every true heart, gentle heart and free, 

That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 

Now, against May, shall have some stirring, — 

whether 
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never, 
At other time, methinks, in like degree. 

For now, when they may hear the small birds' song. 
And see the budding leaves tlie branches throng, 
This unto their remembrance doth bring 
All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing; 
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 

4 



And of that longing heaviness doth come. 
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and 

home; 
Sick are they all for lack of their desire : 
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire. 
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 

In sooth. I speak from feeling ; what though now 
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; 
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, — 
How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 

Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 

Through all this May, that I have little sleep ; 

And also 'tis not likely unto me, 

That any living heart should sleepy be, 

In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 

But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
1 of a token thought, which lovers heed : 
How among them it was a common tale, 
That it was good to hear the nightingale 
Ere the vile cuckoo's note be uttered. 

And then I thought anon, as it was day, 
I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
If I perchance a nightingale might hear ; 
For yet had I heard none, of all that year ; 
And it was then the third night of the May. 

As soon as I a glimpse of day espied, 

Xo longer would I in my bed abide ; 

But straightway to a wood, that was hard by. 

Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, 

And held the pathway down by a brook-side ; 

Till to a lawn I came, all white and green ; 

I in so fair a one had never been : 

The ground was- green, with daisy powdereil over: 

Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, 

All green and whit^e, and nothing else was seen. 

There sat I down among the fair, fresh flowers. 
And saw the birds come tripping from their 

liowers. 
Where they had rested them all night : iind they. 
Who were so joyful at the light of day, 
Bo2:an to honor May with all their powers. 



18 



P0E3IS OF NATURE. 



Well did they know that service all by rote ; 
And there was many and many a lovely note — 
Some, singing loud, as if they had complained ; 
Some with their notes another manner feigned ; 
And some did sing all out with the full throat. 

They pruned themselves, and made themselves 

right gay, 
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; 
And ever two and two together were, 
The same as they had chosen for the year, 
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 

Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sat upon. 
Was making such a noise as it ran on, 
Accordant to the sweet bird's harmony ; 
Methought that it was the best melody 
Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 

And for delight, but how I never wot, 
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught. 
Not all asleep and yet not waking w^holly ; 
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 

And that was right upon a tree fast by, 
And who was then ill satisfied but I ? 
Now God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, 
From thee and thy base throat keep all that's good ; 
Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 

And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, 
That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
Echoing through all the greenwood wide. 

Ah I good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's cheer, 
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; 
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here. 
And she hath been before thee with her song ; 
Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 

But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray : 
As long as in tliat swoon ing-fit I lay, 
Metliought I wist right well what these birds meant. 
And had good knowing l)()th of their intent 
And of their speech, and all that they would say. 



The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : 
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, 
And, prithee, let us that can sing, dwell here ; 
For every wight eschews thy song to hear. 
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 

What ! quoth she then, what is"t that ails thee 

now ? 
It seems to me I sing as well as thou ; 
For mine's a song that is both true and plain, 
Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
As thou dost in thy tln"oat, I wot not how. 

All men may understanding have of me, 
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; 
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry : 
Thou sayest Osee, Osee, then how may I 
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be ? 

Ah ! fool, quoth she, wist thou not what it is ? 
Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis. 
Then mean I. that I should be wondrous fain 
That shamefully they one and all were slain, 
WTioever against Love mean aught amiss. 

And also would I that they all were dead. 
Who do not think in love their life to lead, 
For who is loth the God of Love to obey 
Is only fit to die, I dare well say ; 
And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! 

Ay, quoih the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law. 
That all nuist love or die ; but I withdraw, 
Ana take my leave of all such company, 
For my intent it neither is to die. 
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 

For lovers, of all folk that be alive. 
The most disquiet have, and least do thrive ; 
Most feeling have of soitow, woe, and care. 
And the least welfare cometh to their share: 
What need is there against the truth to strive ? 

What ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, 
That, in thy churlishness, a cause canst find 
To speak of Love's true servants in this mood; 
For in this world no service is so good, 
To ever}' wight that gentle is of kind. 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



10 



For thereof comes all <;:oodiiess and all worth ; 
And gcntiless and honor thence come forth ; 
Thence worship comes, content, and true heart's 

pleasure. 
And full-assured trust, joy without measure. 
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; 

And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
And seemliness, and faithful company. 
And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
For he that faithfully Love's servant is. 
Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 

And that the very truth it is w^hich I 
Xow say, — in such belief I'll live and die ; 
And, Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, 
If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 

Good Xiglitingale ! thou speakest wondrous fair. 
Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere ; 
For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis. 
And Love in old folk a great dotage is ; 
"Wlio most it useth, him "twill most impair. 

For thereof come all contraries to gladness ; 
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, 
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
Dishonor, shame, e\\\y importunate. 
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 

Loving is aye an office of despair. 

And one thing is therein which is not fair : 

For whoso gets of love a little bliss, 

Unless it always stay with him, I wis 

lie may full soon go with an old man's hair. 

And therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep nigh ; 
For, trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry. 
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are ; 
Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I. 

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, bird ill beseen ! 
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen. 
For thou art worse than mad a thousand-fold ; 
For many a one hath virtues manifold. 
Who had been naught, if Love had never been. 



For evermore his servants Love amendeth, 

And he from every blemish them defendeth : 

And raaketh them to burn, as in a fire, 

In loyalty and worshipful desire ; 

And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. 

Thou Xightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still, 
For Love no reason hath but his own will ; — 
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy. 
He lets them perish through that grievous ill. 

With such a master would I never be. 

For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see. 

And knows not when he hurts and when he 

heals ; 
Within his court full seldom truth avails. 
So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 

Then of the Xightingale did I take note. 
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought. 
And said : Alas that ever I was born ! 
Xot one word have I now, I'm so forlorn : 
And with that word, she into tears burst out. 

Alas, alas ! my very heart will break. 

Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak 

Of Love, and of his holy services ; 

Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some wise, 

That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 

And so, methought, I started up anon, 
And to the brook I ran and got a stone, 
Which at the Cuckoo liardily I cast. 
That he for dread did fly away full fast ; 
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 

And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye. 

Kept crying: '' Farewell I — farewell. Popinjay I " 

As if in scornful mockery of me : 

And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 

Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 

Then straightway came the Xightingale to me. 
And said : Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee. 
That thou wert near to rescue me ; and now 
Unto the God of Love 1 make a vow. 
That all this May I will thv sonsrstress be. 



20 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Well satisfied, I thanked her ; and she said : 

By tliis mishap no longer be dismayed, 

Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st 

me : 
Yet if I lire it shall amended be, 
When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 

And one thing will I counsel thee also : 

The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw ; 

All that he said is an outrageous lie. 

Xay. nothing shall bring me thereto, quoth I, 

For Love and it hath done me mighty woe. 

Yea, hath it ? Use, quoth she, this medicine : 
This May-time, even" day before thou dine. 
Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say I, 
Although, for pain thou mayst be like to die. 
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. 

And mind always that thou be good and true. 
And I will sing one song, of many new. 
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry. 
And then did she begin this song full high, 
" Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 

And soon as she had sung it to an end, 

Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend ; 

And. God of Love, that can right well and may, 

Send unto thee as mickle joy this day. 

As ever he to lover yet did send. 

Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me ; 
1 pray to God with her always to l:)e, 
And joy of love to- send her evermore ; 
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, 
For tiiere is not so false a bird as she. 

Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
To all the birds that lodged within that dale. 
And gathered each and all into one place. 
And them besought to hoar her doleful case: 
And thus it was that she began her tale : 

The Cuckoo, — 'tis not well that I should hide 
How she and I did each the other chide. 
And without ceasing, since it was daylight : 
And now I pray you all to do me right 
Of that false bird, whom Love cannot abide. 



Then spake one bird, and full assent all gave : 
This matter asketh counsel good as grave ; 
For birds we are — all here together brought ; 
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not ; 
And therefore we a Parliament will have. 

And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
And other Peers whose names are on record. 
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent. 
And judgment there be given ; or, that intent 
Failing, we finally shall make accord. 

And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, 
Under a maple that is well beseen 
Before the chamber-window of the Queen, 
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. 

She thanked them ; and then her leave she 

took. 
And flew into a hawihorn by that brook ; 
And there she sat and sung, upon that tree, 
" For term of life Love shall have hold of me," 
So loudly that I with that song awoke. 



Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, — 
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, — 
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
To appear before my Lady ? But a sense 
Thou surely hast of her benevolence. 
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness 

To show to her some pleasant meanings, writ 

In winning words, since through her gentiless 

Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 

Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 

Nor leisure unto thee more wortli to give ; 

For of all good she is the best alive. 

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
Though I be far frojn her I reverence, 
To think upon my truth and steadfastness ; 
And to abridge my sorrow's violence 
Caused by the wish, as knows your sa])ience. 
She of her liking proof to me would give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 



21 



l" ENVOY. 

Pleasure's Aurora, day of g^ladsoraeness ! 

Luna by niglit, with heavenly influence 

Illumined ! root of beauty and goodness ! 

Write, and allay, by your beneficence. 

My sighs breathed forth in silence, — comfort give ! 

Since of ail good you are the best alive. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 
Version of William Wordsworth. 



®l)e Black Olock. 

GooD-MORROW to thy sable beak. 
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek, 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye, 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
I see thee slowly cowering through 
That wiry web of silver dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air 
Like casement of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower. 
Who, peeping from her early bower. 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 
The rarest things, with wayward will, 
Beneath the covert hide them still ; 
The rarest things, to light of day 
Look shortly forth, and break away. 

One fleeting moment of delight ' 

I warmed me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, 1 ween, the time will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowden's mist, red beams the day ; 
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baillie. 



^\)c Cirbs of Killingraortl). 

It was the season when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics written by His hand 

Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart 
King; 



When on tlie boughs the purple buds expand. 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring ; 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud. 
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their 
glee; 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd. 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly. 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said, 

" Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread ! " 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their fleet ; 

Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like prognosticating woe : 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dread- 
ful words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden-beds 

And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds. 

The skeleton that waited at tlieir feast. 

Whereby their sinful pleju^ure wjis increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white. 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 

The Scjuire came forth. — august and splendid 
sight I 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 



23 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 

Down the long street he "walked, as one Avho said, 
" A to\m that boasts inliabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society." 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere. 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read with fervor Edwards on the Will : 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In summer on some Adirondack hill : 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy whose belfry crowned 
The Hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 

Now at the clouds, and now at tlie green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class. 

Who was. as in a sonnet he had said. 

As pure as water and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door. 
In liis voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; 

A suit of sable bombazine lie wore : 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; 

There never was so wise a man before ; 
He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so I " 

And to perpetuate his great renown. 

There was a street named after him in to^^Ti. 

These came together in the new town-liall. 
With sundry farmers from the region round : 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound. 

Ill fared it with the birds. l)oth great and small, 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart 
Rose till' Precej^tor, to redress the wrong. 

And, trembling like a steed before the start. 

Looked round bewildered on the expectant 
throng: 

Then thought of fair Almii-a. and took heart 
To speak out what was in him. clear and strong. 



Alike regardless of their smile or frown. 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

" Plato, anticipating the reviewers, 
From his republic banished without pity 

The poets : in this little towm of yours. 
You put to death, by means of a committee, 

The ballad-singers and the troubadours. 
The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 

The birds, w^ho make sweet music for us all 

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy Jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, — 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? For the 
gain 

Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat. 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain. 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain. 

Or a few cherries that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings 
these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys. 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember, too, 
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTIL 



23 



The awakening continents from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 



" Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams, 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'raid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
DrAg home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hav, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 

" You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know 
Thev are the winged wardens of vour farms. 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe. 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all. the crow, 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms. 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence. 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 
The self-same light, although averted hence, 

When by your laws, your actions, and your speech. 

You contradict the very things I teach ? " 

With this he closed; and through the audience 
went 

A murmur like the rustic of dead leaves : 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 

Their yellow heads together like their sheaves : 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed ; and as tlic record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 



There was another audience out of reach. 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws. 

But in the papers read his little speech. 
And crowned his modest temples with ap- 
plause : 

They made him conscious, each one more than 
each. 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause : 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

fair Almira, at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began : 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests. 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts. 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man. 

While the young died of famine in their nests : 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words. 
The very St. Bartholomew of birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes : in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden-lieds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town. 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by, — 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown. 
Who shook them off with just a little cry : 

They were the terror of each favorite walk. 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient : but a few 
Confessed their error, and would not complain : 

For, after all. the l>est thing one can do. 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law. although thoy knew 
It would not call the dead to life again : 

As schoolboys, finding tlu'ir mistake too late. 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 



\ 

24 POEMS OF XATURE. 


That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 


Streaming among the streams ; 


Without the light of his majestic look. 


Her steps paved with green 


The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 


The downward ravine 


The illumined pages of his Dooms-Day Book. 


Which slopes to the western gleams, 


A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame. 


And. gliding and springing, 


And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 


She went, ever singing 


"While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 


In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 


Lamenting the dead children of the air. 


The Earth seemed to love her, 




And Heaven smiled above her. 


But the next Spring, a stranger sight was seen. 


As she lingered towards the deep. 


A sight that never yet by bard was sung. 




As great a wonder as it would have been 




If some dumb animal had found a tongue : 


Then Alpheus bold, 


A wagon overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 
All full of singing-birds came down the street, 


On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook 
And opened a chasm 


Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 


In the rocks : with the spasm 




All Erymanthus shook. 


From all the country round these birds were 


And the black south wind. 


brought 


It concealed behind 


By order of the toAvn, with anxious quest, 


The urns of the silent snow. 


And. loosened from tlieir wicker prison, sought 


And earthquake and thunder 


In woods and fields the places they loved best, 


Did rend in sunder 


Singing loud canticles, which many thought 


The bars of the springs below ; 


Were satires to the authorities addressed ; 


The beard and the hair 


While others, listening in green lanes, averred 


Of the river-god were 


SucK lovely music never had been heard. 


Seen through the torrent's sweep, 




As he followed the light ' 


But blither still and louder carolled they 


Of the fleet nymph's fliglit 


Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 


To the brink of the Dorian deep. 


It was the fair Almira's weddinsr-dav ; 




And everywhere, around, above, below. 
When the Preceptor bore his bride away. 

Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow. 
And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 


" Oh. save me ! Oh. guide me ! 
And bid the deep hide me. 
For he grasps me now by the hair I " 
The loud Ocean heard. 
To its blue depth stirred. 


Hexry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


And divided at her prayer; 




And under the water 




Tlie Earth's wliite daughter 


^rctl)usa. 


Fled like a sunny ])eam : 
Behind her descended 


Arethusa arose 


Her billows, unblended 


From her couch of snows 


With tlie brackish Dorian stream. 


In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 


Like a gloomy stain 


From cloud and from crag 


On the emerald main, 


Wiih many a jag. 


Alpheus rushed bcliind. — 


Shepherding her briglit fountains. 


As an eagle puisuing 


She leapt down the rocks 


A dove to its ruin 


With her rainbow locks 


Down the streams of the cloudv wind. 

• 



LITTLE STREAMS. 



2.5 



L'luler tlie bowers 

Where the ocean powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones ; 

Through the coral woods 

Of the weltering floods, 
Over heaps of unvalued stones; 

Through the dim beams 

Which amid the streams 
Weave a network of colored light ; 

And under the caves, 

Where the shadowy waves 
Are as green as the forest's night — 

Outspeeding the shark, 

And the sword-fish dark, 
Under the ocean foam ; 

And up through the rifts 

Of the mountain cliffs 
They passed to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks 

Like friends once parted. 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below, 
And the meadows of asphodel ; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky, 
WTien they love but live no more. 

Pekct Bysshe Shelley. 



Cittlc Streams. 

Little streams are light and shadow : 
Flowing through the pasture meadow. 
Flowing by the green way-side. 
Through the forest dim and wide. 
Through the hamlet still and small — 
By the cottage, by the hall, 



By the ruin'd abljey still ; 
Turning here and there a mill, 
Bearing tribute to the river — 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Summer music is there flowing. 
Flowering plants in them are growing ; 
Happy life is in them all. 
Creatures innocent and small : 
Little birds come down to drink, 
Fearless of their leafy brink ; 
Xoble trees beside them grow, 
Glooming them with branches low : 
And between, the sunshine, glancing 
In their little waves, is dancing. 

Little streams have flowers a many, 
Beautiful and fair as any ; 
Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 
WiUow-herb, with cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; 
And the water-violet. 
There the flowering-rush you meet, 
And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 
And. in places deep and stilly, 
Marble-like, the water-Uly. 

Little streams, their voices cheery, 

Sound forth welcomes to the weary, 

Flowing on from day to day, 

Without stint and without stay ; 

Here, upon their flowery bank. 

In the old time pilgrims drank, 

Here have seen, as now. pass by, 

King-fisher, and dragon-fly : 

Those bright things that have their dwelling, 

Where the little streams are welling. 

Down in valleys green and lowly, 
Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 
Up in mountain-hollows wild, 
Fretting like a peevish child ; 
Through the hamlet, where all day 
In their waves the children play ; 
Running west, or running east, 
Doing g(xxl to man and beast — 
Always giving, weary never, 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Mary Howttt. 



■■ ' ■ f 

26 POEMS OF XATURE. 




The Water I the Water I 


^\\c toatcrl iri)c tontcrl 


Where I have happy been, 




And showered upon its bosom flowers 


The Water ! the Water ! 


X 

Culled from each meadow green ; 


The joyous brook for me. 


And idly hoped my life would be 
So crowned bv love's idolatrv. 


That tuneth through the quiet night 


Its ever-living glee. 


' 


The Water ! the Water ! 


The Water ! tlie Water ! 


That sleepless, merry heart. 


My heart yet bums to think 


Which gurgles on unstintedly, 


How cool thv fountain sparkled forth. 


And loveth to impart, 


• 1 ~ 

For parched lip to drink. 
The Water 1 the Water 1 


To all around it, some small measure 


Of its own most perfect pleasure. 


Of mine own native glen : 


The Water ! the Water ! 


The gladsome tongue I oft have heard. 


The gentle stream for me, 


But ne'er shall hear again. 


That gushes from the old gray stone. 


Though fancy fills my ear for aye 


Beside the alder-tree. 


With sounds that live so far away ! 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That ever-bubbling spring 


The Water ! the Water ! 


I loved and looked on while a child, 


The mild and glassy wave. 


In deepest wondering, — 


Upon whose broomy banks I've longed 


And asked it whence it came and went. 


To find my silent grave. 


And when its treasures would be spent. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




0. blest to me thou art ! 


The Water ! the Water ! 


Thus sounding in life's solitude 


The merry, wanton brook 


The music of my heart. 


That bent itself to pleasure me. 


And filling it, despite of sadness. 


Like mine old shepherd crook. 


With dreamings of departed gladness. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That sang so sweet at noon, 


The Water ! the Water ! 


And sweeter still all night, to win 


The mournful, pensive tone 


Smiles from the pale, proud moon. 


That whispered to my heart how soon 


And from the little fairy faces 


This weary life was done. 


That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 


The Water ! the Water ! 




That rolled so bright and free. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


And bade me mark how beautiful 


The dear and blessed thing. 


IT^ • J 1 ^ * J_ 


Tliat all day fed the little flowers 


W as its soul s purity ; 




And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 


On its banks blossoming. 




The Water ! the Water ! 


As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 


n^ \ A. 1 • 


•\Vll.T.lAM MOTUERAVELIu 


1 liat murmured m my ear 




Hymns of a saint-like purity. 




That angels well might hear, 




And whisper in the gates of heaven. 




How meek a pilgrim had Ix-en shriven. 


Song of tlic Crook. 


The Water ! the Water ! 


1 COME from haunts of coot and hem, 


Whore I have shed salt tears, 


I make a sudden sally 


In loneliness and friendliness, 


And sparkle out among the fern, 


A thing of tender years. 


To l)icker down a valley. 




«•"/ 



tibue b]e.(D)(I])iEc 



SONa OF THE BROOK. 



27 



By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges ; 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

1 chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles ; 

1 bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I iret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

1 chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

1 wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel. 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel ; 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

1 steal by la-^ms and grassy plots ; 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, T glance. 
Among my skimming swallows, 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 



1 murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round mv cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 



Alfred Texxyson. 



^\)c (Question. 

I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way, 
Bare AYinter was changed suddenly to Spring, 

And gentle odors led my steps astray. 
Mixed with the sound of waters murmuring, 

Along a shelvy bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 

But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a 
dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
Daisies — those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 

The constellated flower that never sets ; 
Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 

The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets. 
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth. 

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears. 

When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew bush-eglantine, 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May ; 

And cherry-blossoms, and white caps whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 
With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray ; 

And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold. 

Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge. 
There grew broad flag-fl<:iwers, purple prankt 
with white ; 

And starry river buds among the sedge 
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light ; 

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 

As soothed the dazzled eve with sober sheen. 



28 P0E2IS OF 


' XATURE. 


Methoiight that of these visionary flowers 


Such is the fate of artless maid, 


I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 


Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 


That the same hues which in their natural bowers 


By love's simplicity betrayed. 


Were mingled or opposed, the like array 


And guileless trust, 


Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 


Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 


Within my hand ; and then, elate and gay, 


Low i' the dust. 


I hastened to the spot whence 1 had come, 




That I might there present it ! Oh to whom ? 


Such is the fate of simple bard, 


Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


On life's rough ocean luckless starred ; 




Unskilful he to note the card 




Of prudent lore. 




Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 


Zo a iHoiintain Daisri. 


And whelm him o'er ! 


ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN 




APRIL, 1786. 


Such fate to suffering worth is given, 




Who long with wants and woes has striven. 


Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 


By human pride or cunning driven 


Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 


To misery's brink, 


For I maun crush amang the stoure 


Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 


Thy slender stem : 


He, ruined, sink ! 


To spare thee now is past my power, 




Thou bonnie gem. 


Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 




That fate is thine — no distant date; 


Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 


Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate. 


The bonnie lark, companion meet, 


Full on thy bloom, 


Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 


Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 


Wi' speckled breast. 


Shall be thy doom ! 


When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 


Robert Burns. 


The purple east. 




Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 




Upon thy early, humble birth ; 


^0 tl]c Small (Cclaubiuc. 


Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 




Amid the storm — 


Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies ; 


Scarce reared above the parent earth 


Let them live upon their praises ; 


Thy tender form. 


Long as there's a sun that sets, 




Primroses will have their glory ; 


The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 


Long as there are violets, 


Uigh shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 


They will have a place in story : 


But thou, beneath the random bield 


There's a flower that shall be mine. 


0" clod or stane, 


'Tis the little Celandine. 


Adorns the histie stil)ble-field, 




Unseen, alane. 


Eyes of some men travel far 




For the finding of a star ; 


There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 


Up and down the heavens they go. 


Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 


Men that keep a mighty rout ! 


Thou lifts thy unassuming hpad 


I'm as great as they, I trow. 


In humble guise ; 


Since the day I found thee out, 


But now the share uptears thy bed, 


Little flower ! I'll make a stir, 


And low thou lies ! 


Like a sage astronomer. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE, 



29 



Modest, yet withal an elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
Since we needs must first have met, 
1 have seen thee, high and low, 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face I did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may. 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest. 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood, 
Travel with the multitude ; 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers ; 
But the thrifty cottager. 
Who stirs little out of doors, 
Joys to spy thee near at home ; 
Spring is coming, thou art come ! 

Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood. 
In the lane ; there's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring Hours ! 
Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do. 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine. 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth. 
Herald of a mighty band. 
Of a joyous train ensuing. 



Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behoove. 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 

William Wordsworth. 



^0 biolcts. 

Welcome, maids of honor, 

You do bring 

In the Spring, 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many, 

Fresh and fair ; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y'are the Maiden Posies, 

And so graced, 

To be placed, 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected. 

By and by 

Ye do lie. 
Poor girls, neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



®o primroses, 

FILLED WITH MORXIXG DEW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes "? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as tiie modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew f 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 
Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years; 
Or warped, as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to ori)hans young. 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 



30 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Speak, whimpering younglings, and lUtike known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
No, no; this sorrow, shown 
By your tears shed. 
Would have this lecture read : — 
" That things of greatest, so of meanest w^orth. 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 
forth." 

Robert IIekrick, 



©0 Blossoms. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast ? 

Your date is not so past 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What ! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night ? 
'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
And, after they have shown their pride 
Like you awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert HEnmcK. 



Zo Daffobils. 

Fair daffodils! we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 

As yet the early-rising sun 

lias not attained his noon : 



Stay, stay 
Until the hastening day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a Spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay. 
As you, or any thing : 

We die, 
As your hours do ; and dry 

Away 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the ];)earls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

Robert Herrick. 



Daffodils. 

I WANDERED, loncly as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd — 
A host of golden daffodils 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending lino 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I, at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay. 
In such a jocund company : 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought. 

For oft, when on my couch I lie, 

In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude, 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daifodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



01 



©railing 'Arbutus. 

Darlings of the forest ! 

Blossoming, alone, 
When Earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone — 
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds 
have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Like the morning sky. 
Or, more pale and saintly. 
Wrapped in leaves ye lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There tlie wild wood-robin. 

Hymns your solitude ; 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
Wliile the low south wind sighs, but dare not be 
more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew, 
Starlight unimpassioncd, 
Dawn's most tender hue, 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for 
you? 

Fairest and most lonely. 
From the world apart ; 
Made for beauty only, 
Veiled from Xature's heart 
"With such unconscious grace as makes the dream 
of Art ! 

Were not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade, 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made. 
And live in the dear woods where my lost child- 
hood played. Rose Terry Cooke. 



^\)C UI)oborrt. 

LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Khodora in the woods 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook : 



The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay — 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky. 
Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing. 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask ; I never knew. 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought 
you. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



Nature. 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by. 
Because my feet find measure with its call ; 
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh. 
For I am known to them, both great and small. 
The flower that on the lonely hill-side grows 
Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given ; 
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, 
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; 
For he who with his Maker walks aright. 
Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight. 
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 
And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 

Jones Vert, 



Song of Glaring. 

Laud the first Spring daisies ; 
Chant aloud their praises ; 
Send the children up 
To the high hill's top : 
Tax not the strength of their young hands 
To increase your lands. 
Gather tlie }irimroses, 
Make handfuls into posies ; 

Take them to the little girls who arc at work in mills : 
Pluck the violets blue, — 
Ah, pluck not a few I 

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven 
the violet instils? 



32 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



Give the children holidays, 

(And let these be jolly days). 

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 

Spring ; 
Better men, hereafter, 
Shall we have, for laughter 
Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes 

ring. 
Send, the children up 
To the high hill's top. 
Or deep into the wood's recesses, 
To woo Spring's caresses. 

See, the birds together. 

In this splendid weather. 

Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as 
men): 

And each feathered neighbor 

Enters on his labor, — 

Sparrow, robin, redpoll, finch, the linnet, and the 
wren. 

As the year advances. 

Trees their naked branches 

Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green ap- 
parel. 

Insect and wild beast 

Keep no Lent, but feast ; 

Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy's in- 
creased. 

And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud 
carol. 

Ah, come and woo the Spring ; 

List to the birds that sing ; 

Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 

Pluck the daisies. 

Sing their praises ; 

Friendship with the flowers some noble thought 

begets. 
Come forth and gather these sweet elves, 
(More witching arc they than the fays of old), 
Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 
Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more 

than gold. 

Come, come into the wood; 
Pierce into the bowers 
Of these gentle flowers, 
Which, not in solitude 



Dwell, but with each other keep society : 

And with a simple piety 

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good. 

Or, upon Summer earth. 

To die, in virgin worth : 

Or to be strewn before the bride, 

And the bridegroom, by her side. 

Come forth on Sundays ; 

Come forth on Mondays ; 

Come forth on any day ; 

Children, come forth to play : — 

Worship the God of Nature in your childhood ; 

Worship Him at your tasks with best endeavor ; 

Worship Him in your sports ; worship him ever ; 

Worship Him in the wild wood ; 

Worship Him amidst the flowers ; 

In the greenwood bowers ; 

Pluck the buttercujis, and raise 

Your voices in His jjraise ! 

Edward Youl. 



2^1)c Broom riocDcr. 

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, 

The ancient poet sung it, 
And dear it is on summer days 

To lie at rest among it. 

I know the realms where people say 
The flowers have not their fellow ; 

I know where they shine out like suns, 
The crimson and the yellow. 

I know where ladies live enchained 

In luxury's silken fetters. 
And flowers as bright as glittering gems 

Are used for written letters. 

But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 

In modern days or olden ; 
It groweth on its nodding stem 

Like to a garland golden. 

And all about my mother's door 
Shine out its glittering bushes, 

And down tlie glen, where clear as light 
The mountain-water gushes. 



THE BRA3IBLE FLOWER. 



33 



Take all the rest ; but give me this, 
And the bird that nestles in it; 

I love it, for it loves the Broom — 
The green and yellow linnet. 

Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, 
And boast of that of Sharon, 

Of lilies like to marble cups, 
And the golden rod of Aaron : 

I care not how these flowers may be 
Beloved of man and woman ; 

The Broom it is the flower for me, 
That groweth on the common. 

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, 

The ancient poet sung it, 
And dear it is oh summer days 



To lie at rest among it. 



Mary Howitt. 



^l)e Bramble J^loujcr. 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 

Wild bramble of the brake I 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 

I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou needst not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 

For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 

That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty beautiful, 

Thy tender l)lossoms are, 
How delicate thy gauzy frill, 

How lich thy branchy stem. 
How soft thy voice when woods are still, 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 

While silent showers are falling slow. 

And, 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little Iwugh, 

Lone whispering through the bush! 
The primrose lo the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet hj the mossed gray stone 

Hath laid her weary her.d; 



5 



But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring, 

In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake, once more 

Thou bidd'st me be a boy, . 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. 

In freedom and in joy. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



^\\t Drier. 

My brier that smelledst sweet, 
When gentle Spring's first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins ; 
Thou that couldst injure none. 
But wouldst be left alone. 
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. 

What ! hath no poet's lyre 
O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier. 

Hung fondly, ill or well ? 
And yet, methinks, ydth. thee 
A poet's sympathy, 
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might 
dwelL 

Hard usage both must boar. 

Few hands your youth will roar, 

Few bosoms cherish you ; 

Your tender prime must bleed 

Ere you are sweet ; but, freed 

From life, you then are prized ; thus prized aro( 

poets too. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the 
way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold! 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold-^ 

High-hearted b\u'canoors. o'erjoycd that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found. 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth ! — th«»uart more dear to hie 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 



34 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish 
prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas; 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age to rob the lover's heart of ease. 
'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand ; 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewtCrded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime,- 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent. 
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass ; 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass, 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways ; 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
Or whiten in the wind ; of waters blue. 

That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap ; and of a sky above, 
Where one white cloud like a stray Iamb doth 
move. 

jVly childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long ; 

And I, secui-e in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and 1 were happy 
peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
When thou, lor all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teacheiit me to deem 
More sacicdly of every human heart, 

Since ciich reflects in joy its scanty gleam 



Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe. 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

Jajies Russell Lowell. 



(j:i)c biolct. 



FAirT, delicious, spring-time violet, 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
Wlien life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lark sings o'er my head. 
Drowned in the sky — O pass, ye visions, pass ! 

I would that 1 were dead ! 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee ? 
vanished Joy ! Love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

violet ! thy odor through my brain 

Hath searched, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wet3iore Sronv. 



®l)c ttcrse. 

Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 



CHORUS OF FLOWERS. 



35 



Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ! 

Bid her come forth — 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

Edmund Waller. 



(dliarus of i^lotxjcrs. 

We are the sweet flowers, 
Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty 
saith ;) 

Utterance, mute and bright. 
Of some unknown delight. 
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple 
breath : 
All who see us love us — 
Wc befit all places ; 
Unto son-ow we give smiles, and unto graces, 
races. 

Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless. 
Though the March-winds pipe to make our passage 
clear ; 

Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells, 
Xor is known the moment green when our tips 
appear. 

We thread the earth in silence, 
In silence build our bowers — 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, 
sweet flowers. 



The dear lumpish baby. 
Humming with the ]May-bee, 
Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through 
the grass ; 

The honey-dropping moon. 
On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bride- 
groom pass. 
Age, the withered dinger, 
On us mutely gazes, 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his child- 
hood's daisies. 

See (and scorn all duller 
Taste) how Heaven loves color; 
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 
green ; 

What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of violets and pinks, 
And a thousand flushing hues made solely to be 
seen; 
See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of 
her flowers. 

Uselessness divinest, 

Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 

Travelers, weary-eyed. 

Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden 
truce ; 

Xot a poor town window 

Loves its sickliest planting. 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 
vaunting. 

Sagest yet the uses 

Mixed with our sweet juices, 
Whether man or ^lay-fly profit of the balm ; 

As fair fingers healed 

Knights from the olden field, 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest 
calm. 

Even the terror, poison. 

Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 



i 
36 POEJIS OF NATURE. 


And oh I our sweet soul-taker. 


Tears of PhcEbus — missings 


Tliat thief, the honey-maker. 


Of Cj-therea's kissings, 


What a house hath he. bv the thvmv <Aen I 


Have in us been found, and wise men find them 


In his talking ropms 


still ; 


How the feasting fumes 


Drooping grace unfurls 


Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of 


Still Hyacinthus" curls, 


men I 


And Xarcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; 


The Ixrtterflies corae aping 


Thy red lip, Adonis, 


Those fine thieves of ours, 


Still is wet with morning ; 


And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flow- 


And the step that bled for thee the rosy brier 


ers with flowers. 


adorning. 


See those tops, how beauteous ! 


Oh ! true things are fables, 


What fair service duteous 


Fit for sagest tables, 


Round some idol w-aits, as on their lord the 


And the flowers are true things — yet no fables 


Nine. 


they. 


Elfin court 'twould seem. 


Fables were not more 


And taught, perchance, that dream 


Bright, nor loved of yore ; 


WTiich the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights 


Yet they gi-ew not, like the flowers, by every old 


divine. 


pathway. 


To expound such wonder 


Grossest hand can test us, 


Human speech avails not, 


Fools may prize us never. 


Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory 


Yet we rise, and rise, and rise — marvels sweet for 


exhales not. 


ever. 


Think of all these treasures, 


Who shall say that flowers 


^latchless works and pleasures, 


Dress not heaven's o^^Tl bowers 1 


Every one a marvel,, more than thought can say. 


'UTio its love, without us, can fancy — or sweet floor ? 


Then think in what b^-ight showers 


^Vho shall even dare 


We thicken fields and lx>wers, 


To say we sprang not there. 


And with what heujis of sweetness half stifle wanton 


And came not down, that Love might bring one 


May; 


piece of heaven the more ? 


Tl>ink of the mossy forests 


pray believe that angels 


By the bee-birds haunted. 


From these blue dominions 


And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 


Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their 


enchanted. 


golden pinions. 

Leigh Hunt. 


Trees themselves are ours ; 




Fruits are born of flowei*s; 
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the 


i^Iorocvs. 


Spring; 

The lusty bee knows well 


Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 


The news, and comes pell-mell. 


When he called the flowers, so blue and golden. 


And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 


Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 


antheming ; 




Beneath the very burden 


Stars they are, wherein we read our history. 


Of planet -i)ressing ocean, 


As astrologers and seers of eld ; 


We wash our smiling cheeks in peace — a thought 


Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery. 


for meek devotion. 


Like the burning stars wliit-h they l)eheld. 



\ 



FLOWERS. 



37 



Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Writ all over this great world of ours, 

Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being 
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining. 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues. 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues. 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ; 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers 
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing — 
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears overflowing, 
Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green emblazoned field. 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brfnk 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Fot alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and boast alone. 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 



In the cottage of the rudest peasant : 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings. 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection. 
We behold their tender buds expand — 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 

Henry Wadsworth Loxgfellow. 



j^iimn to \\)c i^lorocrs. 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye. 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate. 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create I 

"Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringetli 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arcli and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God had planned : 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon sup- 
ply - 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder. 
Its dome the skv. 



38 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the 
sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God, 

Your voiceless lips, Flowers, are living preach- 
ers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostle ! that in dewy splendor 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 
Your lore sublime ! 

" Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory. 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers!" 

In the sweet-scented pictures. Heavenly Artist ! 
AVith which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread 
hall. 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye. Flowers, though made for 
pleasure : 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
Each fading calyx a memento moH, 
Yet fount of hoi)e. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 

Upraised from seed or })ulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a tyjx' of resiuToction, 
And. second birth. 

Were I, God, in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
Mv soul would find, in flowers of thv ordaininjr. 
Priests, sermons, slirines ! 

IIoKACE Smith. 



®o tl)c Niglitingaic. 

Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
AVarblest at eve, v/hen all the woods are still, 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 

Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day. 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove's will 

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 

As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate. 
Both them 1 serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton. 



^bbrcss to tl)c ^igljtiugalc. 

As it fell upon a day, 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made. 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring; 

Every thing did banish moan. 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn ; 

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; 

Teru, teru, by-and-by ; 

That, to hear hfer so complain. 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs, so lively shown. 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; 

None takes pity on thy pain ; 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee : 

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee; 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lapped in lead : 

All thy fellow-birds do sing. 

Careless of thy sorrowing! 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. 

Thou and I were both beguiled, 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



39 



Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 

Faithful friends are hard to find. 

Every man will be thy friend 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; 

But if stores of crowns 1)6 scant, 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal, 

Bountiful they will him call; 

And with such-like flattering, 

" Pity but he were a king." 

If he be addict to vice. 

Quickly him they will entice ; 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown : 

They that fawned on him before, 

Use his company no more. 

Pie that is thy friend indeed, 

He will help thee in thy need ; 

If thou sorrow he will weep. 

If thou wake he cannot sleep. 

Thus, of every grief in heart. 

He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

Richard Babnfield. 



0)bc t0 a Nigljtingalc. 

I\[y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk ; 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 

But being too happy in thy happiness, 
That thou, light-winged Drvad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 

Of Ix'echen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage that hatli been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green. 

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burned 
mirth ! 

Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Ilippocrene, 



With Ix'aded bul)l)les winking at the brim. 
And purple-stainetl mouth — 
That 1 might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known — 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret ; 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs ; 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee ! 

Xot charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards ; 
Already with thee tender is the night. 

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light. 

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Xor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs; 
But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 

White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's oldest child. 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen : and for many a f ime 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft namc^ in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath : 
Xow, more than ever, seems it rich to die. 

To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad. 
In such an ecstasy ! 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I havt> cars in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



40 



POEMS OF NATUBE, 



Thou wast not born for death, im mortal bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown. 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien com : 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements opening on the 
foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell. 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the Fancy can not cheat so well 

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 

Was it a vision or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music — do 1 wake or sleep f 

John Keats. 



pililomcla. 

Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 
The tawny-throated I 

Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! 
What triumph I hark — what pain ! 
O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
Still — after many years, in distant lands — 
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world 
pain — 

Say, will it never heal ? 
And can this fragrant lawn. 
With its cool trees, and night, 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew. 
To thy racked heart and ]»rain 

Alford no balm i 

Dost thou to-night behold. 
Here, through the moonlight on this English 

grass. 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 



Dost thou again peruse. 
With hot cheeks and seared eyes, 
The t(X) clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 

Dost thou once more essay 
Thy flight ; and feel come over thee. 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change ; 
Once more ; and once more make resound, 
With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale f 

Listen, Eugenia, 

How thick the bursts come crowding through the 

leaves ! 

Again — thouhearest! 

Eternal passion ! 

Eternal pain ! 

Matthew Arnold, 



®l)c Mglitingalc. 

No cloud, no relict of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the West; no long thin slip 

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ; 

You sec the glimmer of the stream beneath, 

But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still : 

A balmy night I and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think ui)on the vernal showei*s 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark! the Nightingale begins its song — 

" Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 

A melancholy bird ! Oh, idle thought ! 

In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 

pierced 
With the remembrance of a. grievous wrong. 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him- 
self. 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow) — he, and such iis he, 
Fii"st named these notes a melancholy strain. 
And many a i)oet echoes the conceit — 
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



41 



By suii or moonlight ; to the influxes 
Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements, 
Surrendering his whole spirit ; of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality — 
A venerable thing! — and so his song 
Should make all Xature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the Spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still. 
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood ; 
And the trim walks are broken up ; and grass, 
Thin grass and kingcups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place 1 knew 
S^ many nightingales. And far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than 

all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
That should you close your eyes, you might 

almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
Wliose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 

and full, 
Glistening, while many a glo\v^vorm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 



A most gentle maid. 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve, 
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove,) 
Glides through the pathways — she knows all their 

notes. 
That gentle maid ! and oft, a moment's space. 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud. 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon, 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, warbler ! till to-morrow eve ; 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain 

again ! 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 
The evening-star ; and once when he awoke 
In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream,) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the moon ; and, hushed at once, 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
While his fair eyes, that swarm with undroppcd 

tears. 
Did glitter in the yellow moonboam ! Well I — 
It is a father's talc ; but if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childliood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell. 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! fare- 
well.^ 

Samtel Taylor Coleridge. 



42 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



®l)e ^iglitingalc's Departure. 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 

And pour thy music on " the night's dull 
ear." 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, 

And still protect tha song she loves so well. 
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 

Through the long brake that shades thy mossy 
nest ; 
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 

The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
For still thy voice shall soft affections move, 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 

Charlotte Smith. 



^0 a toatcrfotnl. 

Whither, 'midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of 

day, 
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seekst thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or whore the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air. — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. 
Yet stoop not. weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 



And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
bend. 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 

flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Brtaxt. 



(S^lic lloicc of tl)c (?^rass. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

By the dusty roadside, 

On the sunny hill-side, 

Close by the noisy brook, 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 

All around the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor ; 

Here where the children play. 

In the bright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

In the noisy city street 

My pleasant face you'll meet. 

Cheering the sick at heart 

Toiling his busy part — 
Silently creeping, creeping every^'here. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
You cannot see me coming, 
Nor hear my low sweet humming; 
For in the starry night. 
And the glad morning light, 
I come quietly creeping everywhere. 



JULY. 43 


Here 1 come creeping-, creeping everywhere ; 


Are steadfast, and as heavy seem 


More welcome than the flowers 


As stones beneath them in the stream. 


In Summer's pleasant hours : 




The gentle cow is glad, 


Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs 


And the merry bird not sad, 


Unruffled keep their seedy crowns ; 


To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 


And in the over-heated air 




Not one light thing is floating there, 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 


Save that to the earnest eye 


When you're numbered with the dead 


The restless heat seems twittering by. 


In your still and narrow bed. 




In the happy Spring I'll come 


Noon swoons beneath the heat it made. 


And deck your silent home — 


And flowers e'en within the shade ; 


Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


Until the sun slopes in the west, 




Like weary traveller, glad to rest 


Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 


On pillowed clouds of many hues. 


My humble song of praise 


Then Nature's voice its joy renews. 


Most joyfully I raise 




To Him at whose command 


And checkered field and grassy plain 


I beautify the land. 


Hum with their summer songs again, 


Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 


A requiem to the day's decline. 


Sarah Roberts. 


Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine 




As welcome to day's feeble powers 




As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 


IuIb. 


John Clare. 


Loud is the Summer's busy song, 




The smallest breeze can find a tongue, 


illib summer. 


While iiisects of each tiny size 




Grow teasing with their melodies, 


Around this lovely valley rise 


Till noon burns with its blistering breath 


The purple hills of Paradise. 


Around, and day lies still as death. 






0, softly on yon banks of haze 


The busy noise of man and brute 


Her rosy face the Summer lays I 


Is on a sudden lost and mute : 




7 

Even the brook that leaps along. 


Becalmed along the azure sky 


Seems weary of its bubbling song, 


The argosies of cloudland lie. 


And, so soft its waters creep, 


Whose shores, with many a sinning rift. 


Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep. 


Far off their pearl-wiiite peaks uplift. 


The cricket on its bank is dumb ; 


Through all the long midsummer day 


The very flies forget to hum ; 


The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 


And, save the wagon rocking round, 




The landscape sleeps without a sound. 


I seek the coolest sheltered scat, 


The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 


Just where the field and forest meet, — 


Hath not a leaf that danceth now. 






Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, 


The taller grass upon the hill. 


The ancient oaks austere and grand. 


And spider's threads, are standing still ; 




The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing 


And fringy roots and pebbles fret 


Which to the water's surface cling, 


The ripples of the rivulet. 



44 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



I watch the mowers as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. 

With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 

Behind, the nimble youngsters run, 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 

The cattle graze ; "while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 

And bright, where summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and humble-bee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 

Quickly before me runs the quail. 
The chickens skulk behind the rail ; 

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits. 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells. 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 

The swarming insects drone and hum. 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum. 

The squirrel leaps among the boughs 
And chatters in his leafy house. 

The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! 
Into the mirror of the brook, 

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 

O. this is peace ! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read ; 

A dear Companion here abides : 
Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 

The holy silence is His voice : 
I lie and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



Song. 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But Winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats, , 
And pleased with what he gets. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
Xo enemy 

But Winter and rough weather. 

William Shakespeare. 



(tome to tl)csc Scenes of Peace. 

Come to these scenes of peace. 
Where to rivers murmuring. 
The sweet birds all the Summer sing, 
Wliere cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 
Stranger, does thy heart deplore 
Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? 
Does thy wounded spirit prove 
Pangs of hopeless, severed love ? 
Thoe the stream that gushes clear, 
Thee the birds that carol near. 
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
And dream of their wild lullaby ; 
Come to bless these scenes of peace, 
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 
William Lisle Bowles. 



Z\)c (J3reenu)oob. 

! when 'tis summer weather, 
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, 
The waters clear is humming round. 
And the cuckoo sings unseen, 
And the leaves are waving green — 

! then 'tis sweet, 

In some retreat. 



THE GARDEN. 



45 



To hear the murmuring dove, 

With those whom on earth alone we love, 

And to wind through the greenwood together. 

But when 'tis winter weather, 

And crosses grieve. 

And friends deceive, 

And rain and sleet 

The lattice beat, — ■ 

! then 'tis sweet 

To sit and sing 
Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring, 
We roamed through the greenwood together. 

William Lisle Bowles. 



How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single herb, or tree, 
Whose short and narrow-vern:ed shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do close, 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, 1 sought you then 
In busy companies of men. 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow. 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 
Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
Little, alas \ they know or heed, 
flow far these beauties her exceed ! 
Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 
No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have nin our passion^s heat. 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
Tlie gods who mortal beauty chase. 
Still in a tree did end their race. 



Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life in this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do cnish their wine ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness. 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
Then whets and claps its silver wings. 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was the happy garden state. 
While man there walked without a mate : 
After a place so pure and sweet. 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there ; 
Two paradises are in one. 
To live in paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers, and iierbs, tiiis dial new I 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Docs through a fragrant zodiac run ; 
And, as it woiivs, th* industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such SAveet and wholesome hoiu's 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers f 

Andrew Mahvell. 



46 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



(ri)c (5arbcn. 

Happy art thou, whom God does bless, 
With the full choice of thine own happiness ; 

And happier yet, because thou'rt blest 

With prudence, how to choose the best : 
In books and gardens thou hast placed aright 

(Things, w^hich thou well dost understand ; 
And both dost make with thy laborious hcind) 

Thy noble, innocent delight ; 
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost 
meet 

Both pleasures more refined and sweet ; 

The fairest garden in her looks. 

And in her mind the wisest books. 
0, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, 

For empty shows and senseless noise ; 

And all which rank ambition breeds. 
Which seems such beauteous flowers, and are such 
poisonous weeds? 

When God did man to his own likeness make, 
As much as clay, though of the purest kind, 

By the great potter's art refined. 

Could the divine impression take. 

Ho thought it fit to place him where 

A kind of Heaven too did appear. 
As far as Earth could such a likeness bear : 

That man no happiness might want, 
Which Earth to her first master could afford, 

He did a garden for him plant 
By the quick hand of his omnipotent word. 
As the chief help and joy of human life. 
He gave him the first gift ; first, even before a 
wife. 

For God, the universal architect, 

'T had been as easy to erect 
A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower 
That might with Heaven communication hold. 
As Babel vainly tliought to do of old : 

He wanted not the skill or power; 

In the world's fabric those were shown, 
And the materials were all his own. 
But well he knew what place would best agree 
With innocence and with felicity; 
And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain; 
If any part of either yet remain. 



If any part of either we expect, 

This may our judgment in the search direct ; 

God the first garden made, and the first city Cain. 

blessed shades ! gentle cool retreat 

From all th' immoderate heat, 
In which the frantic world does burn and sweat ! 
This does the. Lion-star, ambition's rage; 
This avarice, the Dog-star's thirst, assuage ; 
Everywhere else their fatal power we see; 
They make and rule man's wretched destiny: 

They neither set, nor disappear, 

But tyrannize o'er all the year ; 
Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. 

The birds that dance from bough to bough. 

And sing above in every tree. 

Are not from fears and cares luore free 
Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, 

x\nd should by right be singers too. 
What pi'incc's choir of music can excel 
That, which within this shade does dwell ? 

To which we nothing pay or gis'e ; 

They, like all other poets, live 
Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains; 

'Tis well if they become not prey. 
The whistling winds add their less artful strains. 
And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play; 
Nature does all this harmony bestow, 
But to our plants art's music too, 
The pipe, theorbo, and guitar, we owe ; 
The lute itself, which once was green and mute, 

When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, 

Tlie trees danced round, and understood 

By sympathy the voice of wood. 

These are the spells that to kind sleep invite. 

And nothing does within resistance make, 

Whicli yet we moderately take : 

Who would not choose to be awake. 
While he's encompast round with such delight. 
To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and 

sight ? 
Wlion Venus would her dear Ascanius keep 
A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep. 
The odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread, 

As the most soft and sweetest bed ; 
Not her own lap would more have charmed his 
head. 



THE GARDEX. 



47 



Who. that has reason and his smell, 
Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, 

Kather than all his spirits choke, 
With exhalations of dirt and smoke, 

And all tli' uncleanness which does drown. 
In pestilential clouds, a populous town ? 
The earth itself breathes better perfumes here, 
Than all the female men, or women, there 
Not without cause, abo\it them bear. 

When Epicurus to the world had taught. 

That pleasure was the chiefest good, 
(And was, perhaps, i' th' right, if rightly under- 
stood), 

His life he to his doctrine brought, 
And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure 

sought : 
Whoever a true epicure would be. 
May there find clicap and virtuous luxury. 
Vitellius's table, which did hold 
As many creatures as the ark of old ; 
That fiscal table, to which every day 
All countries did a constant tribute pay, 
Could nothing more delicious afford 

Than Nature's liberality. 
Helped with a little art and industry, 
Allows the meanest gardener's board. 
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose. 
For which the grape or melon she would lose ; 
Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air 
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare, 

Yet still the fruits of earth we sec 
Placed the third story high in all her luxury. 

But with no sense the garden does comply. 
None courts, or flatters, as it does, the eye. 
When the great Hebrew king did almost strain 
The wondrous treasures of his wealth, and brain. 
His royal southern guest to entertain ; 

Though she on silver floors did tread. 
With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread. 
To hide the metal's poverty ; 
Though she looked up to roofs of gold. 
And nought around her could behold 
But silk, and rich embroidery. 
And Ba])ylonish tapestiy. 
And wealthy Hiram's princely dye : 
l_ Though Ophir's starry stones met evei*}*^vhere her 
' eye ; 



Though she herself and her gay host were drest 
With all the shining glories of the East : 
When lavish Art her costly work had done, 

The honor and the prize of bravery 
Was by the garden from the palace won, 
And every rose and lily there did stand 

Better attired by Nature's hand. 
The case thus judgecj against the king we see. 
By one, that would not be so rich, though wiser far 
than he. 

Nor does this happy place only dispense 

Such various pleasures to the sense ; 
Hero health itself does live. 
That salt of life which does to all a relish give. 
Its standing pleasure and intrinsic wealth, 
The body's virtue and the soul's good - fortune, 

health. 
The tree of life, when it in Eden stood. 
Did its immortal head to Heaven rear; 
It lasted a tall cedar, till the flood ; 
Now a small thorny shrub it does appear ; 

Nor will it thrive too everywhere : 

It always here is freshest seen, 

'Tis only here an evergreen. 

If, through the strong and beauteous fence 

Of temperance and innocence, 
And wholesome labors, and a quiet mind, 

Any diseases passage find. 

They must not think here to assail 
A land unarmed or without a guard ; 
They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, 

Before they can prevail : 

Scarce any plant is growing here, 
Which against death some weapon does not 
bear. 

Let cities boast that they provide 

For life the ornaments of pride ; 

But 'tis the country and the field, 

That furnish it with staff and shield. 
Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
In a more bright and sweet reflection shine! 
Where do we finer strokes and colors see 
Of the Creator's real poetry, 

Than when wc with attention look 
Upon the third day's volume of the book! 
If we could open and intend our eye, 

We all, like Moses, should espy 
Even in a bush the radiant Deity. 



48 POEMS OF NATURE. 


But we despise these, his inferior ways, 


'Tis likelier, much, that you should with me 


(Though no less full of miracle and praise.) 


stay, 


Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze ; 


Than 'tis that you should carry me away ; 


The stars of Earth no wonder in us raise : 


And trust me not, my friends, if every day, 


Though these perhaps do, more than they, 


I walk not here with more delight 


The life of mankind sway. 


Than ever, after the most happy sight, 


Although no part of mighty Nature be 


In triumph to the Capitol I rode 


More stored with beauty, power, and mystery ; 


To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost 


Yet, to encourage human industry. 


a god.'' 


God has so ordered, that no other part 


Abraham Cowley. 


Such space and such dominion leaves for Art. 




We nowhere Art do so triumphant see, 


lnscri|]tion in a hermitage. 


As when it grafts or buds the tree. 




In other things we count it to excel, 


Beneath this stony roof reclined. 


If it a docile scholar can appear 


I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 


To Nature, and but imitate her well ; 


And while, to shade my lowly cave. 


It overrules and is her master, here. 


Embowering elms their umbrage wave; 


It imitates her Maker's power divine. 


And while the maple dish is mine. 


And changes her sometimes, and sometimes does 


The beechen cup, unstained with wine. 


refine. 


I scorn the gay licentious crowd. 


It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore 


Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 


To its blest state of Paradise before. 




Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 


Within my limits lone and still, 


O'er all the vegetable world command ? 


The black-bird pipes in artless trill ; 


And the wild giants of the wood receive 


Fast by my couch, congenial guest. 


What law he's pleased to give % 


The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 


He bids th' ill-natured crab produce 


From busy scenes, and brighter skies, 


The gentle apple's winy juice. 


To lurk with innocence, she flies. 


The golden fruit that worthy is 


Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 


Of Galatea's purple kiss. 


Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 


He does the savage hawthorn teach 




To bear the medlar and the pear ; 


At morn I take my customed round. 


He bids the rustic plum to rear 


To mark how buds yon shrubby mound. 


A noble trunk, and be a peach. 


And every opening primrose count, 


Ev'n Daphne's coyness he docs mock, 


That trimly paints my blooming mount ; 


And weds the cherry to her stock, 


Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude. 


Though she refused Apollo's suit ; 


That grace my gloomy solitude. 


Even she, that chaste and virgin tree, 


I teach in winding wreaths to stray 


Now wonders at herself, to see 


Fantastic ivy's gadding sprav. 


That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. 




Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk 


At eve, within yon studious nook. 


In the Salonian garden's noble shade. 


I ope my brass-embossed book. 


Which by his own imperial hands was made. 


Portrayed with many a holy deed 


I see him smile, methinks. as he does talk 


Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed. 


With the ambassadors, who come in vain 


Then, as my taper waxes dim. 


T' entice him to a throne again. 


Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. 


" If I, my friends," siiid he, " should to you show 


And at the close the gleams behold 


All the delights whicli in these gardens grow. 


Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold. 



THE RETIREMENT. 



49 



While such pure joys my bliss create, 
Who but would smile at guilty state? 
Who but would wish his holy lot 
In calm oblivion's humble grotf 
Who but would cast his pomp away, 
To take my staff, and amice gray, 
And to the world's tumultuous stage 
Prefer the blameless hermitage % 

TUOMAS Warton. 



®l)e Retirement. 

Farewell, thou busy world, and may 

We never meet again ; 
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray. 
And do more good in one short day. 
Than he who his whole age out-wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres. 
Where nought but vanity and vice appears. 

Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 
How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

Oh, how happy here's our leisure ! 
Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 
ye valleys ! ye mountains ! 
ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 
How I love, at liberty. 
By turns to come and visit ye ! 

Bear solitude, the soul's best friend, 
That man acquainted with himself dost make, 
And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 
With thee I here converse at will, 
And would be glad to do so still. 
For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 

Is it, alone 
To read, and meditate, and write. 

By none offended, and offending none ! 
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own case ; 
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 



my beloved nymph, fair Dove, 
Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie, 
And view thy silver stream, 
When gilded by a Summer's beam ! 
And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty, 
And, with my angle, upon them. 
The all of treachery 

1 ever learned industriously to try ! 

Such streams Rome's yellow^ Tiber cannot show. 
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 
Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine ; 
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted 

are 
With thine, much purer, to compare ; 
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
Are both too mean, 

Beloved Dove, with thee 

To vie priority ; 
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, 
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 

O my beloved rocks, that rise 

To awe the earth and brave the skies ! 

From some aspiring mountain's crown 

How dearly do I love. 
Giddy with pleasure, to look down ; 
And, from the vales, to view the noble heights 

above ; 
my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat, 
And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 
What safety, privacy, what true delight, 
In the artificial night 

Your gloomy entrails make. 

Have I taken, do I take ! 
How oft, when grief has made me fly. 
To hide me from society 
E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses' friendly shade, 

AU my sorrows open laid, 
And my most secret woes intrusted to your pri- 
vacy ! 

Lord ! would men let me alone, 
What an over-happy one 



1 

50 POEMS OF XATUHi:. 


Should I tliiiik myself to be — 


And o'er my thoughts are cast 


Might I in this desert place, 


Tints of the vanished past, 


(Which most men in discourse disgrace.) 


Glories that faded fast. 


Live l)iit undisturbed and free ! 


Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 


Here, in this despised recess. 




Would I, maugre Winter's cold, 


As poised on vibrant wings, 


And the Summer's worst excess, 


Where his sweet treasure swings, 


Tiy to live out to sixty full years old : 


The honey-lover clings 


And, all the while, 


To the red flowers, 


Without an envious eve 


So, lost in vivid light. 


On any thriving under Fortune's smile, 


So, rapt from day and night, 


Contented live, and then contented die. 


I linger in delight, 


Charles Cotton. 


Enraptui-ed o'er the vision-freighted hours. 




Rose Terrt Cooke. 


BctJe hn iUibi. 






i^ritttn to ]}an. 


When o'er the mountain steeps 


The hazy noontide creeps. 


THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 


And the shrill cricket sleeps 


From jagged trunks, and ovcrshadoweth 


Under the grass ; 


Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 


When soft the shadows lie, 


Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 


And clouds sail o'er the sky, 


Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress 


And the idle winds go by. 


Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 


With the hea\T scent of blossoms as they pass; 


And through whole solemn hours dost sit and 




hearken 


Then, when the silent stream 


The dreary melody of lx?dded reeds 


Lapses as in a dream. 


In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 


And the water-lilies gleam 


The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 


L^p to the sun ; 


Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 


When the hot and burdened day 


Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx, — do thou now, 


Stops on its downward way, 


By thy love's milky brow. 


When the moth forgets to play, 


By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 


And the plodding ant may dream her toil is 


Hear us, great Pan ! 


done; 






thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 


Then, from the noise of war 


Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 


And the din of earth afar, 


What time thou wanderest at eventide 


Like some forgotten star 


Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 


Dropt from the sky ; 


Of thine enmossed realms ! thou, to whom 


With the sounds of love and fear. 


Broad-lea vc'd fig-trees even now foredoom 


All voices siid and dear, 


Their ripened fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 


Banished to silence drear, 


Their golden honeycomljs ; our village leas 


The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. 


Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied com ; 




The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 


Some melancholy gale 


To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 


Breatlics its mysterious tale, 


Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies 


Till the rose's lips grow pale 


Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh-budding year 


With her sighs ; 


All its completions — be quickly near. 



HYMX TO PAS, 



51 



By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
forester divine ! 

Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to siu'prise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Xaiads" cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
The whUe they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
Hear us, satyr king I 

Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
^'hile ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating I Winder of the horn, 
When snouted wild-boars, routing tender com, 
Anger our huntsmen I Breather round our farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms ! 
Strange ministrant of undescriWd sounds. 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors ! 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see. 
Great son of Dryope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

Be still the unimaginable lodge 

For solitary thinkings — such as dodge 

Conception to the very bourne of heaven. 

Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven 

That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth. 

Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth ; 

Be still a symlx)l of immensity ; 

A firmament reflected in a sea ; 

An element filling the space between : 

An unknown — but no more: we humbly screen 

With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 

And. giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 

Conjure thee to receive our humble papan. 

Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 

John Keats. 



Zo Pan. 

All ye woods, and trees, and ]x)wers, 
All ye virtues and ye powers 
That inhabit in the lakes. 
In the pleasant springs or brakes, 

Move your feet 
To our sound, 

Whilst we greet 
All this ground, 
With his honor and his name 
That defends our flocks from blame. 

He is great, and he is just, 
He is ever good, and must 
Thus l^e honored. Daffodillies, 
Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, 
Let us fling, 

WTiUst we sing, 
Ever holy. 
Ever holy. 
Ever honored, ever young ! 
Thus great Pan is ever sung. 

Beaxtmoxt and Fletcher. 



Z\)c Cirdi-iTrcc. 

RippLiXG through thy branches goes the sunshine. 
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever; 
Ovid in thee a pining Xymph had prisoned, 
The soul once of some tremulous inland river, 
Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah ! dumb, dumb 
for ever ! 

Wliile all the forest, witched with slumberous moon- 
shine. 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, 
Waiting the dew. with breath and pulse suspended. — 
I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands. 
And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung 
silence. 

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet. 
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, 
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet. 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some 
startled Drvad. 



52 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 
Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping : 
Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, 
And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weep- 
ing 
Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy 
keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, 

So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences ; 

Thy shadow scarce seems shade ; thy pattering 

leaflets 
Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses. 
And Xature gives me all her summer confidences. 

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, 
Tliou symi)athizest still : wild and unquiet, 
I fling me down, thy ripple, like a river. 
Flows valleyward where calmness is, and Ijy it 
]\ly heart is floated down into the land of quiet. 

James Russell Lowell. 



toiliotD Song. 



Willow ! in thy breezy moan 

I can hear a deeper tone ; 

Through thy leaves come whispering low 
Faint sweet sounds of long ago — 

Willow, sighing willow ! 

^lany a mournful tale of old 

I I cart-sick Love to thee hath told, 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his l)urning brow — 

Willow, sighing willow! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; 
Maiiy a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent — 
Willow, sighing willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on, 
Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
And for tuneful voices fled. 
And for Love, whose heart hath bled — 
Ever, willow, willow ! 
Felicia Douothea IIemans. 



®lie jBclfrn pigeon. 

Ox the cross-beam nnder the Old South bell 
Tlie nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air ; 
I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
And the belfry edge is gained at last ; 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, 
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, 
The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, 
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, 
When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
When the child is waked with " nine at night," 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — 
Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
lie l)roods on his folded feet unstirred. 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest. 
He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street, 
But, unlike me. when day is o'er. 
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar; 
Or, at a half-felt wisli for rest, 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that, in such wings of gold, 
I could my weary heart uj)fold ; 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



I Avould I could look down unmoved 
(Unloving as I am unloved), 
And while the world throngs on beneath, 
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
And never sad with others' sadness, 
And never glad with others" gladness, 
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



TO MY XOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTOX. 

THOU, that swing'st upon the weaving ear 

Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
Drimk every night with a delicious tear 

Dropped thee from heaven, where now thou'rt 
reared ; 

The joys of air and earth are thine entire, 

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; 

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then ; 

Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams, 
And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 

Thyself, and melancholy streams. 

But ah, the sickle ! golden ears are cropt ; 

Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night ; 
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt, 

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 

Poor verdant fool ! and now green ice, thy joys 
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass. 

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise 
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. 

Thou best of men and friends ! we will create 
A genuine summer in each other's breast ; 

And spite of this cold time and frozen fate, 
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. 

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally 
As vestal flames; the north wind, he 
Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve and 

fly 

This ^tna in epitome. 



Dropping December shall come weeping in, 

Bewail th' usurping of his reign ; 
But when in showers of old Greek we begin. 

Shall cry he hath his crown again. 

Xight as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip 
From the light casements where we play, 

xVnd the dark hag from her black mantle strip 
And stick there everlasting day. 

Thus richer than untempted kings are we, 
That asking nothing, nothing need ; 

Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he 
That wants himself, is poor indeed. 

Richard Lovelace. 



®l)e (5raQsI)0|3pcr. 

Happy insect, what can be 

In happiness compared to thee ? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 

Nature waits upon thee still, 

And thy verdant cup does fill ; 

'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread. 

Nature self's thy Ganymede. 

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing. 

Happier than the happiest king ! 

All the fields which thou dost see, 

All the plants belong to thee ; 

All the summer hours produce. 

Fertile made with early juice. 

Man for thee does sow and plow, 

Farmer he, and landlord thou I 

Thou dost innocently enjoy ; 

Xor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly hcareth thee. 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

Tiico Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Tjifc is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect I luq^py thou, 

Dost lU'ither age nor winter know ; 

But when thou'st dnink, and danced, and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among. 



54 POEMS OF NATURE. 


(Voluptuous and wise withal, 


Yet. alas I we both agree. 


Epicurean animal ! ) 


Miserable thou like me ! 


Sated with thy summer feast, 


Each, alike, in youth rehearses 


Thou retir'st to endless rest. 


Gentle strains and tender verses ; 


Anacreon. (Greek.) 


Ever wandering far from home. 


Translation of Abraham Cowley. 


Mindless of the days to come 




( Such as aged Winter brings 


tlic i^lg. 


Trembling on his icy wings), 


Both alike at last we die ; 


OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRIXKIXG OUT OF THE 


Thou art starved, and so am I ! 


author's cup. 






Walter Harte. 


Busy, curious, thirsty fly. 




Drink with me, and drink as I ! 




Freely welcome to my cup, 


©n tl)c (Srasslioppcr. 


Couldst thou sip and sip it up : 




Make the most of life you may ; 


Happy songster, perched above, 


Life is short and wears away ! 


On the summit of the grove. 




Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing 


Both alike, both mine and thine, 


With the freedom of a king : 


Hasten quick to their decline ! 


From thy perch sui-vey the fields, 


Thine's a summer ; mine no more, 


Where prolific Nature yields 


Though repeated to threescore ! 


Nought that, willingly as she, 


Threescore summei-s, when they're gone, 


Man surrenders not to thee. 


Will appear as short as one I 


For hostility or hate 


William Oldys. 


None thy pleasures can create. 




Thee it satisfies to sing 


^ Goliloquri. 


Sweetly the return of Spring ; 


Herald of the genial hours. 


OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER. 


Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 


Happy insect ! ever blest 


Therefore man thy voice attends 


With a more than mortal rest, 


Gladly — thou and he are friends ; 


Rosy dews the leaves among. 


Nor thy never-ceasing strains 


Humble joys, and gentle song I 


Phoebus or the Muse disdains 


Wretched poet ! ever curst 


As too simple or too long. 


With a life of lives the worst. 


For themselves inspire the song. 


Sad despondence, restless fears, 


Earth-born, bloodless, imdecaying. 


Endless jealousies and tears. 


Ever singing, sporting, playing, 


In the burning summer thou 


What has nature else to show 


Warblest on the verdant lx)ugh, 


Godlike in its kind as thou i 


Meditating cheerful i)lay. 


Anacreon. (Greek.) 


Mindless of the })i('rcing ray ; 


Trani^lation of William Cowper. 


Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I 




Ever wee[> and ever die. 




Proud to gratify thy will, 


(Du the (!3vassliouucr anb (Tinckct. 


Ready Nature waits thee still; 


' 'II 


Balmy wines to thee she [tours. 


The poetry of earth is never dead : 


Weeping through the dewy flowers, 


When all the birds are faint with the hot sun 


Rich HS those by Hebe given 


And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 


To the thirsty sons of heaven. 


From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. 



THE IWMBLE-BEE. 55 


That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 


1 
Voyager of light and noon, 


In summer luxury, — he has never done 


Epicurean of June ! 


With his delights; for, when tired out with fun, 


Wait, I prithee, till I come 


He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 


Within earshot of thy hum, — 


The poetry of earth is ceasing never. 


All without is martyrdom. 


On a lone winter evening, when the frost 




Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 


When the south wind, in May days, 


The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 


With a net of shining haze 


And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 


Silvers the horizon wall ; 


The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. . 


And, with softness touching all. 


John Keats. 


Tints the human countenance 




With the color of romance ; 




And infusing subtle heats 


®l)e (5rasslioppcr anb (Urickct. 


Turns the sod to violets, — 




Thou in sunny solitudes, 


Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 


Rover of the underwoods. 


Catching your heart up at the feel of June — 


The green silence dost displace 


Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon 


With thy mellow breezy bass. 


When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 




And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 


Hot Midsummer's petted crone, 


With those who think the candles come too soon, 


Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 


Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 


Tells of countless sunny hours, 


Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ! 


Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 


sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 


Of gulfs of sweetness Avithout bound. 


One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 


In Indian wildernesses found ; 


Both have your sunshine : both, though small, are 


Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 


strong 


Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 


At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth 




To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 


Aught unsavorv or unclean 


In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. 


Hath my insect never seen ; 


Leigh Hunt. 


But violets, and bilberry bells, 




Maple sap, and daffodels. 


®lie §nmblc-Bce. 


Grass with green flag half-mast high. 
Succory to match the sky, 


Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 


Columbine with horn of honey, 


Where thou art is clime for me. 


Scented fern, and agrimony. 


Let them sail for Porto Rique, 


Clover, catch fly. adder's tongue, 


Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 


And brier-roses, dwelt among: 


I will follow thee alone. 


All beside was unknown waste, 


Tliou animated torrid zone ! 


All was picture as he passed. 


Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, 




Let me chase thy waving lines ; 


Wiser far than hujnan seer. 


Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 


Yellow-broeched philosopher, 


Singing over shrubs and vines. 


Seeing only what is fair. 




Sipping only what is sweet. 


Insect lover of the sun. 


Thou dost mock at fat»» and care. 


Joy of thy dominion ! 


Leave the chatT and take the wheat. 


Sailor of the atmosphere ; 


When the fierce north-western bhist 


Swimmer through the waves of air, 


Cools sea and land so far and fast, 

I 



56 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



Thou already slumberest deep ; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



The Spice-Tree lives in the garden green ; 

Beside it the fountain flows ; 
And a fair bird sits the boughs between, 

And sings his melodious woes. 

No greener garden e'er was known 
Within the bounds of an earthly king ; 

No lovelier skies have ever shone 

Than those that illumine its constant Spring. 

That coil-bound stem has branches three : 

On each a thousand blossoms grow ; 
And, old as aught of time can be, 

The root stands fast in the rocks below. 

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire 
The fount that builds a silvery dome ; 

And flakes of purple and ruby fire 
Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. 

The fair white bird of flaming crest, 
And azure wings bedropt with gold, 

Ne'er has he known a pause of rest. 
But sings the lament that he framed of old : 

" Princess bright ! how long the night 
Since thou art sunk in the waters clear ! 

How sadly they flow from the depth below ! 
How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear ? 

" The waters play, and the flowers are gay, 

And the skies are sunny above; 
I would that all could fade and fall. 

And I, too, cease to mourn my love. 

" 0, many a year, so wakeful and drear. 

1 have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee ! 
But there comes no breath from the chambers of 
death, 

While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree."' 



The skies grow dark, and they glare with red ; 

Th3 tree shakes off its spicy bloom ; 
The waves of the fount in a black pool spread ; 

And in thunder sounds the garden's doom. 

Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry, 

Into the sable and angry flood ; 
And the face of the pool, as he falls from 
high. 

Curdles in circling stains of blood. 

But sudden again upswells the fount : 
Higher and higher the waters flow — 

In a glittering diamond arch they mount, 
And round it the colors of morning glow. 

Finer and finer the watery mound 
Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil, 

And tones of music circle around. 

And bear to the stars the fountain's tale. 

And swift the eddying rainbow screen 

Falls in dew on the grassy floor ; 
Under the Spice-Tree the garden's Queen 

Sits by her lover, who wails no more. 

John Steklixg. 



^[)t ^rab to tl)c palm. 

Next to thee. fair gazelle, 

Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 

Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 

Next to ye both, I love the Palm, 

With his leaves of beauty, his fniit of balm ; 

Next to ye both, I love the tree 

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 

With love, and silence, and mystery! 

Our tribe is many, our poets vie 

With any under the Arab sky; 

Vet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

{ 'airo's citadi'l-diadeni 

Are not so liijht as his slender stem. 



THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 57 


He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, 


And what shoulder, and what art, 


As the Almehs lift their arras in dance — 


Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 




And when thy heart began to beat. 


A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 


What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 


That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 






What the hammer ? what the chain ? 


Full of passion and sorrow is he, 


In what furnace was thy brain ? 


Dreaming where the beloved may be. 


What the anvil ? What dread grasp 


And when the warm south winds arise. 


Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 


He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, 




When the stars threw down their spears, 


Quickening odors, kisses of balm. 


And watered heaven with their tears. 


That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 


Did He smile his work to see ? 




Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 


The sun may flame, and the sands may stir. 




But the breath of his passion reaches her. 


Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 




In the forest of the night. 
What immortal hand or eve 


.0 Tree of Love, by that love of thine, 


Teach me how 1 shall soften mine ! 






Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 


Give me the secret of the sun. 


William Blake. 


Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 




If I were a king, stately Tree, 




A likeness, glorious as might be. 


m)t Cion^s Uibe. 


In the court of my palace I'd build for thee 


The lion is the desert's king ; through his domain 


With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, 


so wide 


Aud leaves of beryl and malachite ; 


Right swiftly and right rovallvthis night he means 




to ride. 


With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze. 


By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, 


And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase. 


close crouches the grim chief ; 




The trembling sycamore above whispers with every 


And there the poets, in thy praise. 


leaf. 


Should night and morning frame new lays — 






At evening, on the Table Mount, when ve can see 


New measures sung to tunes divine : 


O" ' *■ 


But none, Palm, should equal mine ! 


no more 
The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom 


Bayard Taylor. 


is speckled o'er 




With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends home 




through the lone karroo ; 


®lie (£igcr. 


When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the 


stream the gnu ; 


Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 




In the forest of the night, 


Then bend your gaze across the waste — what see 


What immortal hand or eye 


ye ? The giraffe. 


Could frame thy fearful symmetry f 


Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid 




lymph to quaff ; 


In what distant deeps or skies 


With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he 


Burned the ardor of thine eyes f 


kneels him down to cool 


On what wings dare he aspire ? 


His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the 


What the hand dare seize the fire ? 


foul and brackish pool. 



58 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



A rustlins: sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits 

astride 
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so 

ride ? 
Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of 

state 
To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits 

elate ? 

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged 
with ravenous greed ; 

His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the 
steed. 

Up_ leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and sur- 
prise, 

Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel-leopard 
flies. 

His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the 
moonlit plain ! 

As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring 
eyeballs strain ; 

In thick l)lack streams of purling blood, full fast 
his life is fleeting ; 

The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumult- 
uous beating. 

Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the 

path of Israel traced — 
Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the 

waste — 
From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout 

from ocean, 
A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the 

courser's fiery motion. 

Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture 

whirs on high ; 
Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and 

sly, 

And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in 

the horrid race ; 
By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, their 

monarch's course they trace. 

They see him on his living throne, and quake with 

fear, tlie while 
Witli claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's 

painted pile. 



On I on I no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and 

strength remain ! 
The steed by such a rider backed, may madly 

plunge in vain. 

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 
breathes his last ; 

The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the 
rider's fell repast. 

O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is de- 
scried : 

Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of 

beasts doth ride. 

Ferdinand Freiligrath. (German.) 
Anonymous translation. 



Z\)t ®asis of Gibi l\l]alc5. 

How the earth burns ! Each pebble under foot 

Is as a living thing with power to wound. 

The white sand quivers, and the footfall mute 

Of the slow camels strikes l}ut gives no sound. 

As though they walked on flame, not solid ground ! 

"Tis noon, and the beasts' shadows even have fled 

Back to their feet, and there is fire around 

And fire beneath, and the sun overhead. 

Pitiful Heaven I what is this we view ? 

Tall trees, a river, pools, where swallows fly, 

Thickets of oleander where doves coo. 

Shades, deep as midnight, greenness for tired eyes. 

Hark, how the light winds in the palm-tops sigh! 

Oh, this is rest ! oh, this is paradise I 

Wilfred Scawen Blunt. 



Z\]c Cion anb tlic (Simitfc. 

WouLDST thou view the lion's den ? 
Search afar from haunts of men. 
Where the reed-encircled rill 
Oozes from the rocky hill. 
By its verdure far descried 
'Mid the desert brown and wide. 

Close beside the sedgy brim, 
Couchant, lurks the lion grim ; 
Watching till the close of day 
Brings the death-devoted prey. 



AFAB IN THE DESERT. 59 


Heedless at the ainlmshcd brink 


The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my 


The tall giraffe stoops down to drink ; 


prime ; 


Upon him straight the savage springs 


All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 


With cruel joy. The desert rings 


When the feelings were young, and the world was 


With clanging sound of desperate strife ; 


new, 


The prey is strong, and strives for life. 


Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; 


Plunging off with frantic bound 


All — all now forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! 


To shake the tyrant to the ground, 


And I — a lone exile remembered of none — 


He shrieks — he rushes through the waste, 


My high aims abandoned, — my good acts un- 


With glaring eye and headlong haste. 


done — 


In vain ! — the spoiler on his prize 


Aweary of all that is under the sun — 


Rides proudly, tearing as he flies. 


With that sadness of heart which no stranger may 


For life, the victim's utmost speed 


scan. 


Is mustered in this hour of need. 


I fly to the desert afar from man. 


For life, for life, his giant might 




He strains, and pours his soul in flight ; 


Afar in the desert I love to ride. 


And mad with terror, thirst, and pain, 


With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 


Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 


When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 


'Tis vain ; the thirsty sands are drinking 


With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 


His streaming blood, his strength is sinking; 


strife — 


The victor's fangs are in his veins. 


The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear — 


His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains ; 


The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear — 


His panting breast in foam and gore 


And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and 


Is bathed — he reels — his race is o'er. 


folly. 


He falls — and, with convulsive throe, 


Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 


Resigns his throat to the ravening foe ! 


When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 


— And lo ! ere quivering life is fled, 


high. 


The vultures, wheeling overhead, 


And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh — 


Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array, 


Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride. 


Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. 


Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 


TuoMAs Pringle. 


There is rapture to vault on the champing steed. 




And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 




With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — 


^iax in tlje IDcscrt. 


The only law of the Desert Land ! 


Afar in the desert I love to ride, 


Afar in the desert I love to ride, 


AVith the silent Bush-iwy alone by my side. 


With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 


When tlie sorrows of life the soul o'crcast, 


Away — away from the dwellings of men. 


And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 


By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 


When the eye is suffused with regretful tears. 


By valleys remote where the oribi plays. 


From the fond recollections of former years ; 


Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebecst 


And shadows of things that have long since fled 


graze. 


Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : 


And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 


Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; 


By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild 


Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon ; 


vine : 


Attachnumts by fate or falsehood reft ; 


Where the elopliant browses at peace in liis wood, 


Companions of early days lost or left — 


And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood. 


And my native land — whose magical name 


And the miglity rhinoceros wallows at will 


Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 


In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. 



60 



POEMS OF X A TUBE. 



Afar in the desert 1 love lo ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively : 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate have scooped their 

nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 

Away — away — in the wilderness vast 

Where the white man's foot hath never passed, 

And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 

Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan : 

A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 

Which man hath abandoned from famine and 

fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root. 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter melon, for food and drink. 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink; 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rii)pling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky. 
And the blank horizon, round and roimd, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 
And here, while the night-winds round me 

sigh. 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijali at Iloreb's cave, alone, 
" A still small voice" comes tiirough the wild. 
Like a father consoling his fretful child, 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear. 
Saying — Man is distant, but God is near! 

Thomas Pringle. 



Cl)iqnita. 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her 
match in the county, — 

Is thar. old gal ? Chiquita. my darling, my beauty ! 

Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's velvet! Whoa! 
Steady — ah. will you ? you vixen ! 

Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentle- 
man look at her paces. 

Morgan ! — She ain't nothin" else, and I've got the 
papers to prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dol- 
lars won't buy her. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know 
Briggs of Tuolumne? — 

Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his 
brains down in "Frisco ? 

Hed n't no savey, — hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll 

do, — quit that foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do when she's got her work 

cut out before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, 

jockeys is jockeys ; 
And 'tain't every man as can ride as knows what a 

hoss has got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got 

Flanigan's leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough 

ford in low water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge, 

and his nevey. 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and 

the water all round us ; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake 

Creek just a bilin', 
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on 

the river. 
I had the gray, and the Jedge had liis roan, and his 

nevey, Chiquita : 
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from 

the top of the caflion. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and 

Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could 

yell to her rider. 



THE GLORY OF MOTION. 



61 



Took water jest at the ford, and there was the 

Jedge and me standing, 
And twelve hundred doHars of hoss-flesh afloat, 

and a driftin' to thunder ! 

Would ye b'lieve it, that night, that hoss, — that 

ar' filly, — Chiquita, — 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there all 

quiet and dripping ! 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness. 
Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' 

filly, Chiquita. 

That's what I call a hoss ! and — what did you say ? 

0, the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem 

back to deny it. 
Ye see the denied fool had no seat, — ye could n't 

have made him a rider ; 

And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses 

— well, bosses is bosses ! 

Bret Harte, 



Gamarra is a dainty steed, 
Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone. 
With all his line of fathers known ; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
His mane is like a river flowing. 
And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 
And his pace as swift as light. 

Look — how 'round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float ; 

Sinewy strengtli is in his reins. 

And the red blood gallops through his veins ; 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — • 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guclph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 

He, who hath no peer, was born, 
Here, upon a red March morn : 



But his famous fathers dead 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 

Trod like one of a race divine ! 

And yet, — he was but friend to one, 

Who fed him at the set of sun, 

By some lone fountain fringed with green : 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day). 

And died untamed upon the sands 

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. 

Barrt Cornwall. 



^\)z ^\oxv\ of illotiou. 

Three twangs of the horn, and they're all out of 
cover ! 
Must brave you, old bull-finch, that's right in 
the way ! 
A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I'm 
over ! 
They're silent and racing and for'ard away : 
Fly, Charley, my darling ! xVway and we fol- 
low; 
There's no earth or cover for mile upon mile ; 
We're winged with the flight of the stork and the 
swallow ; 
The heart of the eagle is ours for a while. 

The pasture-land knows not of rough plough or 
harrow ! 

The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward ; 
The soul of the horses goes into our marrow ; 

My saddle's a kingdom, and I am its lord : 
And rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean. 

Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide 
on. 
And small flying fences in musical motion, 

Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. 

puissant of bone and of sinew availing. 

On thee how I've longed for the brooks and the 
showers ! 
white-breasted camel, the meek and unfail- 
ing, 
To speed through the glare of the long desert 
hours ! 



62 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



And, bright little Barbs, ye make worthy pre- 
tences 
To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; 
But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the 
fences I 
And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires. 

gay gondolier ! from thy night-flitting shal- 
lop 

I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar ; 
But sweeter the rhythmical nish of the gallop, 

The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. 
Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster 

Hath ever strode under a man at his need ; 
But glad in the hand and embrace of thy mas- 
ter, 

And pant to the passionate music of speed. 

Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person 

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, 
So fully adapted to break into burgeon 

As this — that the steel is n't out of him yet; 
That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather ; 

Tiiat one's horse can restore one the years that 
are gone ; 
That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, 

The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ? 

Richard St. Joun Tyrwuitt. 



Uain on tl)c Hoof. 

W'hex the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears, 
"Uliat a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chaml)er bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy bemg start. 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 



Xow in memory comes my mother, 

As she used long years agone. 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them till the dawn. 
Oh I I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Wliich is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hair, 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene, angelic pair — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow 

With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes, to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious l)lue ; 
And I mind not, musing on lier. 

That her heart was all untrue ! 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain, 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, 

Wlience the tears of rapture well, 
As that melody of Nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the siiingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

COATES KiKNEY. 



iFuuocation to Uain in Gummcr. 

GEXTLE, gentle summer rain, 

Let not the silver lily pine. 
The drooping lily pine in vain 

To feel that dewy touch of thine. 
To drink thy freshness once again, 

gentle, gentle summer rain I 

In heat the landscape quivering lies; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree ; 
Through parching air and purple skies 

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee ; 



THE CLOUD. 



63 



For thee, for thcc, it looks in vain, 
gentle, gentle summer rain ! 

Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
And soften all the hills with mist, 

falling dew ! from burning dreams 
By these shall herb and flower be kissed ; 

And Earth shall bless thee yet again, 
gentle, gentle summer rain I 

William C. Bennett, 



I BRiXG fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet birds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain ; 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
In a cavern under, is fettered the thunder; 

It stniggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The spirit he loves, remains ; 
And I all the while l)ask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
x\nd his burning plumes outspread. 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning star shines dead. 



xVs, on the jag of a mountain crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings ; 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white flre laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march. 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair, 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 



64 POEMS OF NATURE. 


For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 


Beneath the golden gloarain' sky 


The pavilion of heaven is bare, 


The mavis mends her lay ; 


And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 


The red-breast pours his sweetest strains, 


gleams, 


To charm the ling'ring day ; 


Build up the blue dome of air, 


While weary yeldrins seem to wail 


I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 


Their little nestlings torn. 


And out of the caverns of rain. 


The merry wren, frae den to den, 


Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 


Gaes jinking through the thorn. 


tomb. 




I arise and unbuild it again. 


The roses fauld their silken leaves, 


Percy Bt-sshe Shelley. 


The foxglove shuts its bell ; 




The honeysuckle and the birk 




Spread fragrance through the dell. 




Let others crowd the giddy court 


Drinking. 


Of mirth and revelry. 


The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 
And drinks, and gapes for drink again ; 
The plants siick in the earth, and are. 


The simple Joys that Nature yields 
Are dearer far to me. 

Egbert Tannahill. 


With constant drinking, fresh and fair ; 




The sea itself (which one would think 




Should have but little need to drink), 
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, 


®l)c to.inbcring tOinb. 


So filled that they o'erflow the cup. 


The Wind, the wandering Wind 


The busy sun (and one would guess 


Of the golden summer eves — 


By's drunken fiery face no less), 


Whence is the thrilling magic 


Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done, 


Of its tones amongst the leaves f 


The moon and stars drink up the sun : 


Oh ! is it from the waters, 


They drink and dance by their own light ; 


Or from the long tall grass ? 


They drink and revel all the night. 


Or is it from the hollow rocks 


Nothing in nature's sober found. 


Through which its breathings pass ? 


But an eternal " health " goes round. 




Fill up the bowl then, fill it high — 


Or is it from the voices 


Fill all the glasses there : for why 


Of all in one combined, 


Should every creature drink but I? 


That it wins the tone of mastery f 


\Yhy, man of morals, tell me why ? 


The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 


Akacreon. (Greek.) 


No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 


Translation of Abraham Cowley. 


That with it come and go. 




Tliey are not from the osiers. 




Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 


8ri)c illibgcs Dunce aboon tlic Burn. 


They are not of the waters. 


The midges dance aboon the burn ; 


Nor of the caverned hill : 


The dews begin to fa' : 


'Tis the human love within us 


The pairtricks down the rusliy holm 


That gives them power to thrill : 


Set up their e'cning ca'. 


They touch the links of memory 


Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 


Around our spirits twined, 


"Rings through the Imery siiaw. 


And we start, and weep, and tremble. 


While, flitting gay, the swallows play 


To tlie Wind, the wandering Windf 


Around the castle wa'. 


Felicia Dorothea Remans. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 



65 



©be to tlic to:st toinb. 



WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are di wen, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! thou. 
Who chariotest to their dark, wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds, like flocks, to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors, plain and hill : 

Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, hear ! 

II. 

Thou, on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean. 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. 



Thou dirge 



Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors : from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : hear ! 

III. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The hhio Mediterranean, where he lay. 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baia^'s bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers. 
Quivering within the waves' intenser day, 
7 



All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet the sense faints picturing them I Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below. 
The sea-blooms, and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves : hear ! 

IV. 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power and share 

The impulse of thy strength — only less free 
Than thou, uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven 

As, thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life I I bleed ! 

A hea^w weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is. 
What if my leaves are falling like its own I 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone — 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind I 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy I O wind. 

If winter comes, can spring be far behind i 

Percy Btpshe SnTi-i.tr. 



66 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Ziu\\\\\% Gl)i;3 off Sl]orc. 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers. 

The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, 
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers. 

And the waves with the coming squall-cloud 
blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow, 
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head? 

There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of "Full and by!" 
Is suddenly changed for " Full for stays ! " 

The ship bends lower before the breeze. 
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; 

And she swifter springs to the rising seas. 
As the pilot calls, " Stand by for stays ! " 

It is silence all, as each in his place, 

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, 

By tack and bowlii^^yjDy sheet and brace, 
Waiting the watet*. ord impatient stands. 

And the light on Fire Island Head draws 
near. 

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout 
From his post on tiie bowsprit's heel I hear, 

With the welcome call of " Ready ! About ! " 

Xo time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 
And the captain growls, " Down, helm ! hard 
down ! " 
As my weight on the whirling spokes 1 throw. 
While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 
frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea ; 

And my shoulder stiff to the wliecl 1 lay. 
As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir ! Ilu-a-rd a-lee ! " 

With tlie swerving leap of a startled steed 
The sliip flies fast in the eye of the wind. 

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede. 

And the headland white we have left behind. 



The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. 

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; 

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; 
And thunders the order, " Tacks and sheets ! " 

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, 
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 

The sails are aback from clew to clew, 

And now is the moment for, " Mainsail, haul ! " 

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, 
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swTing : 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 
For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. 

" Let go, and haul ! " 'Tis the last command, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more : 

Astern and to leeward lies the land. 

With its breakers white on the shingly shore. 

^Miat matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ? 

I steady the helm for the open sea ; 
The first mate clamors, " Belay, there, all ! " 

And the captain's breath once more comes free. 

And so off shore let the good ship fly ; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. 

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. 

"Walter Mitchell. 



The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free I 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 

It plays with tlie clouds ; it mocks the skies; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go : 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

Wliat matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh how I love io ride 

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 



THE STORMY PETREL. 



61 



When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the sou'west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backwark flew to her billowy breast. 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was, and is, to me ; 
For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
In the noisy hour when I was born : 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 

I've lived since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life. 
With wealth to spend, and power to range, 
But never have sought nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me. 
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



(iri)c Stotmn petrel. 

A THOUSAND miles from land are we, 

Tossing about on the stormy sea — 

From billow to bounding billow cast, 

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 

The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; 

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ; 

The mighty cables and iron chains. 

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, — 

They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 

stone 
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 

L^p and down ! — up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown. 

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam, 

The stormy petrel finds a home — 

A home, if such a place may be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 



On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young, and to teach them to spring 

At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing ! 

O'er the deep ! — o'er the deep ! 

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish 

sleep — 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard. 
Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; 
Yet he ne'er falters — so, petrel spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



^ tOct Sl)cct anb a i'lotoing ^ta. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high — 
And white Avaves heaving high, my boys. 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 
And liglitning in yon cloud ; 

And hark the music, mariners ! 
The wind is piping loud — 

The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
Tlic lightning flashing free ; 

While the hollow oak our pahice is. 



Our heritage the sea. 



Allan Cunningham. 



68 POEMS OF NATURE. 




Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip, 


iLujiiiglit. 


And the naked spars be snapped away, 




Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship 
In the teeth of the whelming spray ! 


The twilight is sad and cloudy: 
The wind blows wild and free ; 


And like the wings of sea-birds 


Hark ! how the surges o'erleap the deck ! 


Flash the white caps of the sea. 


Hark ! how the pitiless tempest raves ! 


But in the fisherman's cottage 


Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck 


There shines a ruddier light, 


Drifting over the desert waves. 


And a little face at the window 


Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the wave, 


Peers out into the night ; 


With God above us, our guiding chart. 


Close, close it is pressed to the window, 
As if those childish eyes 


So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave. 
Be it still with a cheery heart ! 


Were looking into the darkness, 


Bayard Taylor. 


To see some form arise. 




And a woman's waving shadow- 


^t ^ta. 


Is passing to and fro. 




Now rising to the ceiling, 


The night is made for cooling shade, 


Now bowing and bending low. 


For silence, and for sleep ; 




And when I was a child, I laid 


Wliat tale do the roaring ocean 


Mv hands upon mv breast, and prayed. 


And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 


And sank to slumbers deep : 


As they beat at the crazy casement, 


Childlike as then I lie to-night, 


Tell 'to that little child? 


And watch my lonely cabin-light. 


And why do the roaring ocean. 


Each movement of the swaving lamp 


And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 


Shows how the vessel reels : 


As they beat at the heart of the mother, 


As o'er her deck the billows tramp, 


Drive the color from her cheek ? 


And all her timbers strain and cramp 


Henry Wadsworth Lqxofellow. 


With every shock she feels, 




It starts and shudders, while it burns, 




And in its hinged socket turns. 


Storm Gong. 


Now swinging slow and slanting low. 


Thp: clouds are scudding across the moon ; 


It almost level lies : 


A misty light is on the sea; 


And yet I know, wliile to and fro 


The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, 


I watch the seeming pendule go 


And the foam is flying free. 


With restless fall an<l rise. 




The steady shaft is still upright. 


Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 


Poising its little globe of light. 


Sjieaks in the cloud and gathering roar; 




Thank (lod. Hi- lias given us Imiad sea-room. 


hand of God ! lamp of peace ! 


A thousiind miles from shore. 


ju-omise of my soul ! 




Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease. 


Down with the hatches on those who sleep ! 


Amid the roar of smiting seas. 


The wild and wliistling dock have we; 


The ship's convulsive r(»ll. 


Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep. 


I own with love and tender awe 


While the tempest is on the sea ! 


Yon perfect type of faith and law. 



SUA WEED. 



GO 



A heavenly trust my spirit calms, 

My soul is filled with light : 
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms, 
The wild winds chant : 1 cross my palms, 

Happy as if to-night 
Under the cottage roof again 
I heard the soothing summer rain. 

John ToA\TsrsEND Trowbridge. 



SeatDccb. 

Whex descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks ; 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 

From Bahama and the dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wi-ecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long, 
From each cave and rocky fastness 

In its vastness. 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted 
Heaven has planted 



With the golden fruit of truth ; 
From the flashing surf whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong will, and the endeavor 

That for ever 
Wrestles with the tides of fate ; 
From the wreck of hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



(5ulf-tocc5. 

A WEARY weed, tossed to and fro, 

Drearily drenched in the ocean brine. 
Soaring high and sinking low. 

Lashed along without will of mine ; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea ; 

Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
Mark my manifold mystery, — 

Gro\\i:h and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red. 

Rootless and rover though I be ; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 
Mid the wild waves' rude uproar. 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 

Something whispers soft to me. 
Restless and roaming for evermore. 

Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 

The eternal type of the wondrous whole — 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest. 

Grace informing with silent soul. 

Cornelius George Fenner. 



POEMS OF NATURE, 



®n a picture of peel Castle in a Storm. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 

Four summer weeks 1 dwelt in sight of 
thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 

Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air, 

So like, so very like was day to day. 
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; 

It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no 
sleep. 

No mood which season takes away or brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah I then if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw, and add the 
gleam, 

The light that never was on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the jDoet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile, 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 

Elysian quiet without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 

Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, In the fond illusion of my heart, 

Such picture would I at that time have made ; 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that miglit not be bc- 
t raved. 



So once it would have been : — 'tis so no more ; 

1 have submitted to a new control ; 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 

A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and bo what 1 have been; 

The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 

This, which I know. I speak with mind serene. 



Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been 
the friend, 

If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here : 

That hidk which labors in the deadly swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge castle, standing here sublime, 
I love to see the look with which it braves, 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling 
waves. 

Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone. 
Housed in a dream at distance from the kind ! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne, 

Such sights, or wors3, as are before me here : 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 

William Wordsworth. 



®;i)e Cittlc !3eiul)-Birb. 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea. 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice. 
And with that boding cry 
O'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
Oh ! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice ! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
Thy cry is weak and scared. 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
What does it bring to met 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
Ilestloss and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore. 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery — t lie Word. 



THE SAND-PIPER. 



Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 
Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells — 
Tells of man's woe and fall, 
His sinless, glory fied. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
Thy spirit never more. 
Come, quit with me the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 

EicHARD Henry Dana. 



Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sand-piper and I ; 
And fast 1 gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. 
As up and down the beach we flit — 

One little sand-piper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 
Almost as far as eye can reach, 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach — 

One little sand-piper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 
He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery : 
He has no thought of any wrong. 

He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
Staunch friends are we, well-tried and strong, 

This little sand-piper and 1. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night. 
When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 

My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 
To what warm shelter canst thou flv ■? 



I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky ; 

For are we not God's children both, 
Thou little sand-piper and I ? 

Celia Thaxter. 



®l)e Coral (Srooe. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 

WTiere the purple mullet and gold-flsh rove ; 

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 

blue 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift. 
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and billows 

flow; 
The water is calm and still below. 
For the winds and waves are absent there, 
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
In the motionless flelds of upper air. 
There, with its waving blade of green, 
The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There, with a light and easy motion. 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep 

sea; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the ui)land lea. 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own. 
And when the sliip from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 

skies, 

And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; 

Then, far below, in the }K^aceful sea. 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 

Through the bending twigs of the coral 

grove. 

James Gates Percival. 



73 POEMS OF XATUBi:. 

1 


Z\\c Cliambcrcb rCantilns. 


igampton Beacl). 


This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 


The sunlight gUtters keen and bright, 


Sails the unshadowed main, — 


Where, mdes awav. 


The venturous bark that flings 


Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 


On the sweet summer wind its purple wings 


A luminous belt, a misty light. 


Jn gulfs enchanted, where the siren slugs, 


Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy 


j And coral reefs lie bare, 


gray. 


\N here the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 




ing hair. 


The tremulous shadow of the sea ! 




Against its ground 


Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 


Of silvery light, rock. hill, and tree, 


Wrecked is the ship of pearl I 


Stdl as a picture, clear and free, 


And every chambered cell, 


With varying outline mark the coast for miles 


Wliere its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 


around. 


As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 




Before thee lies revealed. 


On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 


Its irised ceUing rent, its sunless cr^-pt un- 


Our seaward way. 


sealed ! 


Through dark -green fields and blossoming grain, 




Wliere the wdd brier-rose skirts the lane. 


Year after vear beheld the silent tod 

• 


And bends above our heads the flowering-locust 


That spread his lustrous cod ; 


spray. 


Stdl. as the spiral grew. 




He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 


Ha I like a kind hand on my brow 


Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 


Comes this fresh breeze. 


Built up its idle door. 


Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 


Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old 


While through my being seems to flow 


no more. 


The breath of a new life — the hciding of the seas ! 


Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 


Xow rest we, where this grassy mound 


thee. 


His feet hath set 


Child of the wandering sea, 


In the great waters, which have bound 


Cast from her lap forlorn I 


His granite ankles greenly round 


From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom 


With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 


Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 


spray wet. 


While on mine ear it rings, 




Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 


Good-bye to pain and care I I take 


that sings : 


Mine ease to-day ; 




Here, where these sunny waters break, 


Build thee more stately mansions, my soul. 


And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 


As the swift seasons roll ! 


All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts 


Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 


awav. 


Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 




1 ^ 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 


I draw a freer breath ; I seem 


vast. 


Like all I see — 


Till thou at length art free. 


Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 


1 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting 


Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 


sea! 


And far-off sails which flit before the south wind 


Oliver Wexdell Holxes. 

1 


free. 



DRIFTING. 73 


So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 


So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell ! 


The soul may know 


I h>ear with me 


Xo fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 


Xo token stone nor glittering shell, 


Xor sink the weight of mystery under. 


But long and oft shall Memory tell 


But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 


Of this brief, thoughtful hour of musing by the 


grow. 


sea. John Greexleaf Whittier. 


And all we shrink from now may seem 




Xo new revealing — 
Familiar as our childhood's stream, 


Drifting. 


Or pleasant memory of a dream, 


My soul to-day 


The loved and cherished Pa^t upon the new life 


Is far away. 


stealing. 


Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
My winged boat. 


Serene and mild, the untried lis'ht 

vZJ 

May have its dawning ; 


A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote ; 


And, as in Summer's northern light 
The evening and the dawn unite, 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new 
morning. 


Round purple peaks 
It sails and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 
Where high rocks throw, 


I sit alone ; in foam and spray 
Wave after wave 


Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 


Breaks on the rocks which, stem and gray, 


Far, vague, and dim 


Shoulder the broken tide away. 


The mountains swim ; 


Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft 


Whfle on Vesuvius' misty brim, 


and cave. 


With outstretched hands, 




The gray smoke stands, 


'SVhat heed I of the dusty land 


O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 


And noisy town ? 
1 see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of nrli^mering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 


Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 

And yonder, bluest of the isles. 

Calm Capri waits. 


down ! 


Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 


In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to all 
The change of cloud and ware and wind ; 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and 
fall. 


I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff : 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 


But look, thou dreamer I — wave and shore 


Under the walls 


In shadow lie ; 


'V\'7iere swells and falls 


The night-wind warns me back once more 


The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 


To where my native hill-tops o'er 


At peace I lie. 


Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset 


Blown softly by, 


sky ! 


A cloud upon this liquid sky. 



74 



POEJIS OF XATUJtiE. 



The day, so raild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand 1 trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense ; 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies ; 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid. 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 

With glowing lips 

Sings as he skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where traffic blows 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

( ) happy crew, 

^ly heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 



Xo more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

(To Genera £akc. 

Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake. 
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. 

And round his breast the ripples break, 
As down he beai-s before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far. 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam. 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of nuuitling blue 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below, 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
Oh 1 1 could ever sweep the oar, — 

When early birds at morning wake, 
And evening tells us toil is o'er. 

James Gates Percival. 



iJarroiD Uiunsitcb. 

From Stirling ca^^tle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " winsome marrow:" 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the braes of Yarrow." 




£^ 



2 



2>5 



I 



YABROW UNVISITED. 75 


" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 


The treasured dreams of times long past. 


Who have been buying-, selling, 


We'll keep them, winsome marrow ! 


Go back to Yarrow ; 'tis their own — 


For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 


Each maiden to her dwelling ! 


'Twill be another Yarrow ! 


On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 




Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! 


" If care with freezing years shoidd come, 


But we will downward with the Tweed, 


And wandering seem but folly, — 


Xor turn aside to Yarrow. 


Should we be loth to stir from home, 




And yet be melancholy, — 


" There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 


Should life be dull, and spirits low, 


Both lying right before us ; 


'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 


And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 


That earth has something yet to show — 


The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 


The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 


There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land 


William Wordsworth. 


Made blithe with plough and harrow; 




Why throw away a needful day 




To go in search of Yarrow ? 


l^arrou) bisitcb. 


" What's Yarrow but a rivei' bai-e, 


And is this — Yarrow? — This the stream 


That glides the dark hills under? 


Of which my fancy cherished, 


There are a thousand such elsewhere, 


So faithfully, a waking dream ? 


As worthy of your wonder." 


An image that hath perished ! 


Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn ; 


that some minstrel's harp were near. 


l^.Iy true-love sighed for sorrow, 


To utter notes of gladness, 


And looked me in the face, to think 


And chase this silence from the air. 


I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 


That fills my heart with sadness ! 


" Oh, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms 


Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 


And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 


With uncontrolled raeandorings ; 


Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 


Nor have these eyes by greener hills 


But we will leave it growing. 


Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 


O'er hilly path, and open strath. 


And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake 


We'll wander Scotland thorougli ; 


Is visibly delighted ; 


But, though so near, we will not turn 


For not a feature of those hills 


Into the dale of Yarrow. 


Is in the mirror slighted. 


" Let beeves and homebred kine partake 


A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 


The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 


Save where that pearly whiteness 


The swan on still St. ]\Iary's Lake 


Is round the rising sun diffused — 


Float double, swan and shadow ! 


A tender, hazy brightness ; 


We will not see them : will not go 


Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 


To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 


All profitless dejection ; 


Enough, if in our hearts we know 


Though not unwilling here to admit 


There's such a place as Yarrow. 


X pensive recollection. 


" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown I 


Where was it that the famous Flower 


It must, or we shall rue it : 


Of Yai-row Valo lay l)leoding? 


Wo have a vision of our own : 


His bod perchance was yon smooth mound 


Ah ! why should wo undo it ? 


On which the herd is feeding ; 



76 POEMS OF NATURE. 


And haply from this crystal pool, 


I see, — but not by sight alone. 


Now peaceful as the morning, 


Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 


The water-wraith ascended thrice, 


A ray of fancy still survives, — 


And gave his doleful warning. 


Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 




Thy ever-youthful waters keep 


Delicious is the lay that sings 


A course of lively pleasure ; 


The haunts of happy lovers — 


And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 


The path that leads them to the grove, 


Accordant to the measure. 


The leafy grove that covers ; 




And pity sanctifies the verse 


The vapors linger round the heights ; 


That paints, by strength of sorrow, 


They melt, and soon must vanish ; 


The unconquerable strength of love : 


One hour is theirs, nor more is mine : 


Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 


Sad thought, which I would banish, 




But that I know, where'er I go, 


But thou, that didst appear so fair 


Thy genuine image, Yarrow, 


To fond imagination, 


Will dwell with me. to heighten joy, 


Dost rival in the light of day 


And cheer my mind in sorrow. 


Her delicate creation. 


William Wordsworth, 


Meek loveliness is round thee spread — 




A softness still and holy. 




The grace of forest charms decayed, 




And pastoral melancholy. 


garrou) Ucinsitcb. 


That region left, the vale unfolds 


The gallant youth who may have gained, 


Rich groves of lofty stature. 


Or seeks, a '• winsome marrow," 


With Yarrow winding through the pomp 


Was but an infant in the lap 


Of cultivated nature ; 


When first I looked on Yarrow ; 


And, rising from those lofty groves, 


Once more, by Newark's castle-gate, 


Behold a ruin hoary ! 


Long left without a warder. 


The shattered front of Newark's towers, 


I stood, looked, listened, and with thee, 


Renowned in border storv. 


Great Minstrel of the Border ! 


Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. 


Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 


For sportive youth to stray in ; 


Their dignity installing 


For manhood to enjoy his strength. 


In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 


And age to wear away in ! 


Were on the bough or falling ; 


Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 


But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed. 


A covert for protection 


The forest to embolden : 


Of tender thoughts that nestle there. 


Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 


The brood of chaste affection. 


Transparence through the golden. 


ITow sweet, on this autumnal day. 


For busy thoughts, the stream flowed on 


The wild-wood fruits to gather. 


In foamy agitation ; 


And on my true-love's forehead plant 


And slept in many a crystal pool 


A crest of blooming heather ! 


For quiet contemplation. 


And what if I inwreathed my own ! 


No public and no private care 


'Twere no offence to reason ; 


The freel)orn mind enthralling, 


The s()l)er hills thus deck their brows 


We made a day of luqipy hours. 


To meet the wintry season. 


Our happy days recalling. 



\ 



YARROW REVISITED, 



77 



Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth, 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate noon, her sober eve, 

Her night not melancholy ; 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united, 
Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging, 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Though we were changed and changing - 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over, 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal Ijlessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And care waylays their steps, — a sprite 

Xot easily eluded. 

For thee, Scott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot 
For warm Yesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May classic fancy, linking 
With native fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking I 

0, while they minister to thee. 

Each vying with the other. 
May health return to mellow age. 

With strength, her venturous brother ; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and stoiy, 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory I 

For thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Ilast shed the power of Yarrow ; 



And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Wherever they invite thee. 
At parent Nature's grateful call 

With gladness must requite thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine — 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her — 
Beheld what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer. 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer ? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self — 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized romance 

Plays false with our affections : 
Unsanctifies our tears, — made sport 

For fanciful dejections. 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart, in feeling 
Life as she is, — our changeful life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered ; 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last Minstrel " (not the last !), 

Ere he his tale recounted ! 

Flow on for ever. Yarrow stream I 

Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
Well pleased that future bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine. 
And dearer still, as now I feel. 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 

William Wordsworth. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



0U Ucuisiting tl)c Banks of tlie tOge. 

Five years have passed; five summers, with the 

length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs 
With a soft inland murmur. Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
Which on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard 

tufts. 
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again 1 see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms 
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms 
Through a long absence have not lieen to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind 
Wilh tranc^uil restoration: — feelings too 
Of unremembcrcd pleasiu'c : such. i)erhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Xor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us on. 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame. 



And even the motion of our human blood, 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft , 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye I thou -sAanderer through the 

woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee I 
And now. with gleams of half - extinguished 

thought. 
With many recognitions diiu and faint. 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again : 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when 

first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever Nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature 

then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all gone by,) 
To me was all in all. I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite : a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed, for such loss, I w(mld believe. 



ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE, 



79 



Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity. 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

4nd the round ocean, cind the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am 

1 still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create. 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not tlius tauglit, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear Sister ! And this prayer I 

make. 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Ruoh judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 



Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee : and, in after-years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations 1 Nor, perchance. 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 

gleams 
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came. 
Unwearied in that service ; rather say 
With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 

William Wordsworth. 



iQamcst. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, 
Is the wind's song, 
Astir in the rippled wheat 

All day long. 
It hath the brook's wild gayety. 
The sorrowful ciy of the sea. 
Oh, hush and hear I 
Sweet, sweet, and clear, 
Above the locust's whirr 
And hum of bee 
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony, 

In the meadow-grass 

The innocent white daisies blow, 
The dandelion plume doth paiss 

Vaguely to and fro — 



80 POEMS 01 


' NATURE. 


The unquiet spirit of a flower. 


1 
The leathery pears and apples 


That hath too brief an hour. 


Hang russet on the bough ; 


Now doth a little cloud all white, 


It's Autumn. Autumn, Autumn late, 


Or golden bright, 


'Twill soon be Winter now. 


Drift down the warm blue sky; 


Robin, robin redbreast, 


And now on the horizon line 


Robin dear ! 


Where dusky woodlands lie, 


And what will this poor robin do ? 


A sunnv mist doth shine, 


For pinching days are near. 


Like to a veil before a holy shrine. 




Concealing, half -revealing, things divine. 


The fireside for the cricket, 




The wheat-stack for the mouse. 


Sweet, sweet, sweet. 


When trembling night-winds whistle 


Is the wind's song, 


And moan all round the house. 


Astir in the rippled wheat 


The frosty ways like iron, 


All day long. 


The branches plumed with snow, — 


That exquisite music calls 


Alas I in Winter dead and dark, 


The reaper everywhere — 


"WTiere can poor Robin go ? 


Life and death must share. 


Robin, robin redbreast, 


The golden harvest falls. 


Robin dear I 




And a crumb of bread for Robin, 


So doth all end — 


7 

His little heart to cheer. 


Honored philosophy, 


WiLLLAM AlUXGHAM. 


Science and art. 




The bloom of the heart ; 




Master, Consoler, Friend. 




Make Thou the harvest of our days 
To fall within thy ways. 


^ Song for September. 


Ellen Mackay HrxcHixsoN. 


September strews the woodland o'er 




With many a brilliant color: 




The world is brighter than before — 


Uobin Ucbbrcast. 


Why should our hearts be duller f 
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf. 


GooD-BYE, good-bye to Summer ! 


Sad thoughts and sunny weather! 


For Summer's nearly done ; 


Ah me I this glory and this grief 


The garden smiling faintly. 


Agree not well together. 


Cool breezes in the sun ; 




Our thrushes now are silent. 


This is the parting season — this 


Our swallows flown away. — 


The time when friends are flying; 


But Robin's here in coat of brown, 


And lovers now, with many a kiss, 


And scarlet breast-knot gay. 


Their long farewells are sighing. 


Robin, robin redbreast, 


\\Tiy is Earth so gayly drest ? 


Robin dear ! 


This pomp that Autumn beareth. 


Robin sings so sweetly 


A funeral seems, where every guest 


In the falling of the year. 


A bridal garment weareth. 


Bright yellow, red. and orange. 


Each one of us, perchance, may here, 


The leaves come down in hosts ; 


On some blue morn hei-eafter, 


The trees are Indian princes. 


Return to view the gaudy year. 


But soon they'll turn to ghosts ; 


But not with boyish laughter. 



FIDELITY 



81 



8 



We shall then be wrinkled men, 

Our brows with silver laden, 
And thou this glen niayst seek again. 

But nevermore a maiden ! 

Nature perhaps foresees that Spring 

Will touch her teeming bosom. 
And that a few brief months will bring 

The bird, the bee, the blossom : 
Ah ! these forests do not know — 

Or would less brightly wither — 
The virgin that adorns them so 

Will never more come hither I 

Thomas William Paksoks. 



i^ibcUtt}. 

A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
lie halts, — and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantly a dog is seen. 
Glancing through that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy — 
With something, as the shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry ; 
Xor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow or on height : 
Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess. 

That keeps, till June. Decembers snow ; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 
Far in the bosom of Ilelvellyn. 
Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway, or cultivated land. — 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 

The crags repeat the raven's croak 
In symphony austere ; 



Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud. 
And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And sunbeams : and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
The shepherd stood : then makes his way 

O'er rocks and stones, following the dog 
As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground. 

The appalled discoverer with a sigh 

Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 

At length upon the shepherd's mind 
It breaks, and all is clear. 

He instantly recalled the name. 

And who he was. and whence he came ! 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell \ 
A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 
The dog, which still was hovering nigh. 
Repeating the same timid cry. 
This dog had been through three months' space 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 

When this ill-fated traveller died, 
The dog had watched about the spot, 

Or by his master's side. 
How nourished here tln-ough such long time 
He knows who gave that love sublime. 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate I 

William Wordsworth. 



iTo lUcaborcs. 

Ye have been fresh and green ; 

Ye have been filled with flowers; 
And ye the walks have l)een 

Where maids have spent their hours. 



82 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



Ye have beheld where they 

With wicker arks did come. 
To kiss and bear away 

The richer cowslips home : 

You're heard them sweetly sing", 

And seen them in a round : 
Each virgin, like the Spring. 

With honeysuckles crowned. 

But now we see none here 
Whose silvery feet did tread. 

And with dishevelled hair 
Adorned this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts. having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown. 

You're left here to lament 
Your poor estates alone. 

Robert Hebrick. 



(The ^nsbanbman. 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother. 
Feeds him still with com and wine ; 

He who best would aid a brother, 
Shares with him these gifts divine. 

Many a power within her bosom, 
Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 

Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, 
Golden ear and clustered wreath. 

These to swell with strength and beauty 

Is the royal task of man : 
Man's a king : his throne is duty, 

Since his work on earth began. 

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — 
These, like man, are fruits of eaith ; 

Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, 
All from dust receive their birth. 

Bam and mill, and wine-rat's treasures, 
Earthly goods for earthly lives — 

These are Nature's ancient pleasures; 
These her child from her derives. 

What the dream, but vain rebelling, 
If from earth we sought to flee f 

'Tis our storetl and ample dwelling ; 
'Tis from it the skies we see. 



Wind and frost, and hour and season. 
Land and water, sun and shade — 

Work with these, as bids thy reason, 
For they work thy toil to aid. 

Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness ! 

Man him*=;elf is all a seed : 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — 

Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 

JoHx Sterljko. 



Zo ttic fringcb (5cntian. 

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 

Or columbines in purple dressed, 

Xod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
^lien woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
Tlie aged Year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue— blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

WiLLiAjc CnxEJi Bryant. 



QV Gtill Dnti in 'Xntnmn. 

I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary, 
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day. 

When Summer pithers up her roll's of glory, 
And. like a dream of Ix^auty, glides away. 

How, through each loved, familiar path she lingers, 
Serenely smiling through the golden mist. 

Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers. 
Till the cool emerald turns to amethrst ; 



\ 



COEXFIELDS. 



8:3 



Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls ; 

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, 

Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled. 

Till the slant sunljeams.throughtheirfringesraining, 
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 

The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves and 
flowers, 

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow. 
Where yellow fem-tufts fleck the faded ground. 

With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, 
The gentian nods, in dreamy slumbers bound. 

Upon those soft, fi-inged lids the bee sits brooding, 
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell ; 

Or. with shut winsrs. through silken folds intruding. 
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 

The little birds upon the hill-side lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray. 

Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 

Thescentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dreaming, 

Forget to breathe their fulness of delight ; 

And through the tranced woods soft airs are stream- 
ing, 

Still as the dew-fall of the Summer night. 

So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling 
Stii-s, like the wind in Ocean's hollow shell, 

Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, 
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell. 

Sakah Helex Whitmax. 



(Tornficlbs. 

When on the breath of autumn breeze 
From pastures dry and brown, 

Goes floating like an idle thought 
The fair white thistle-down. 

Oh tlren what joy to walk at will 

Upon the golden harvest hill ! 



What joy in dreamy ease to lie 

Amid a field new shorn. 
And see all round on sunlit slopes 

The piled-up stacks of com : 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
AU pleasant harvest-fields of yore I 

I feel the day — I see the field, 

The quivering of the leaves. 
And good old Jacob and his house 

Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
And at this very hour I seem 
To be with Joseph in his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlehem, 

And reapers many a one. 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke; 

And Boaz looking on ; 
And Ruth, the Moabite so fair. 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 

Again I see a little child, 

His mother's sole delight, — 
God's living gift of love unto 

The kind good Shunamite ; 
To mortal pangs I see him jield. 
And the lad bear him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 

The fields of Galilee, 
That eighteen hundred years ago 

Were full of corn, I see ; 
And the dear Saviour takes His way 
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 

Oh, golden fields of Ijending corn. 

How beautiful they seem ! 
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 

To me are like a dream. 
The sunshine and the veiy air 

Seem of old time, and take me there. 

Mart Howitt. 



'^ntnmn i^Iorocrs. 

Those few pale Autumn flowers, 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before. 
Than all the Summer store. 
How lovelier far ! 



84 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And why f — They are the last I 

. The last ! the last '. the last ! 
Oh ! by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirred 
That whisper of the past ! 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 

Ye're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments, 
That flit, like life's enjoyments, 

On i-apid, rapid wings : 

Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That Time the fastest spends). 

Last tears in silence shed, 

Last words half uttered. 
Last looks of dying friends. 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day, — 
The last day spent with one 
Who, ere the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 

precious, precious moments f 
Pale flowers ! ye're types of those ; 

The saddest, sweetest, dearest. 
Because, like those, the nearest 
To an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers! 
I woo your gentle breath — 

1 leave the Summer rose 
For younger, blither brows : 

Tell me of change and death f 

Caroline Bowuks Southey. 



(Tlic DcatI] of tlic i^IatD'^rs. 

The melancholy days arc come, the saddest of the 
year. 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 
leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab- 
bit's tread. 



The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 

shrubs the Jay. 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all 

the gloomy day. 

WTiere are the flowers, the fair young flowers that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light, and softer au*s, a beauteous sis- 
terhood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 
of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and 
good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold 
November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 



The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 

ago. 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in 

the wood. 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 

beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as 

falls the plague on men. 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from 

upland, glade, and glen. 

And now. when comes the calm mild day. as still 

such days will come. 
To call the squiiTel and the bee from out their 

winter home : 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 

all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose 

fragrance late he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 

stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youfliful 

beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

mv side. 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



85 



In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the for- 
ests cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 
so brief ; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young 
friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



Z\\c l§nntcr of tl)c Prairies. 

Ay, this is freedom — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke ; 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed. 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk. whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way — 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

Xo taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers tliat scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 



Alone the fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here — 

With roaring like the battle's sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain. 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. 
I meet the flames with flames again. 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past 

Speaks solemnly : and I behold 
The boundless Future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass f 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges and bears me through the tide: 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

0"er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 

William Clllen Bryant. 



illn Qcarfs in tlic fliQMiinbs. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wlierever I rove. 
The hills of the Highhinds for ever I love. 
Farewell to the mountains high covered with 

snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys belmv : 
Farewell to tlie forests and wild-hanging woods : 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, aiul following the roe. 
My heiirt's in the Higlilands. wherever I go. 

Robert Btrxs. 



f- ■ ■ '1 

86 P0E2IS OF NATURE. 


(ri)c jguntcv's Song. 


QIl)c £ast Uosc of Summer. 


Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn. 


'Tis the last rose of Summer 


The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, 


Left blooming alone ; 


And the frost shrinks back like a beaten 


All her lovely companions 


hound, 


Are faded and gone ; 


Under the steaming, steaming ground. 


No flower of her kindred, 


Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, 


No rosebud is nigh. 


And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 


To reflect back her blushes, 


Our hoi*ses are ready and steady, — So, ho ! 


Or give sigh for sigh ! 


I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 




Hark, hark! — Who callefh the maiden Jloni 
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble 


I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
To pine on the stem ; 


corn ? 

The horn, — the horn! 
The merry, siceet ring of the hunter^s horn. 


Since the lovely are sleeping, 
Go, sleep thou wath them. 
Thus kindly 1 scatter 




Thy leaves o'er the bed 


Now, through the copse where the fox is 


Wliere thy mates of the garden 


found. 


Lie scentless and dead. 


And over the stream at a mighty bound. 




And over the high lands and over the low. 

O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! 

Away ! — as a hawk flies full at his prey, 

So flieth the hunter, away, away ! 

From the burst at the cover till set of sun, 

When the red fox dies, and — the day is done. 

Hark, hark.' — What sound on the tvind is 


So soon may I follow. 
When friendships decay. 

And from Love's shining circle 
The gems drop away ! 

When true hearts lie withered, 
And fond ones are flo\vn, 

Oh ! who would inhabit 


borne 9 
'Tis the conquering voice of the huntefs horn : 
The horn, — the horn ! 


This bleak world alone ? 

Thomas Moore. 


The mernj, bold voice of the hunter's horn. 




Sound ! Sound the horn I To the hunter good 
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? 


2^0 Autumn. 


Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, 


Season of mists and mellow fruitf ulness ! 


At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 


Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ! 


Oh, what delight can a mortal lack, 


Conspiring with him how to load and bless 


When he once is firm on his horse's l)a(k. 


With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves 


With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, 


run — 


And the blast of the horn for his morning 


To IxMid with apples the mossed cottage trees. 


song ? 


And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core — 


Bark, hark f — Xow home! and dream till 


To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 


morn 


shells 


Of thi' bold, sweet sound of the hunter s horn ! 


With a sweet kernel — to set budding, more 


The horn, — the horn ! 


And still more, later flowers for the bees, 


Oh, thii sound of all sounds is the hunter's 


Until they think warm days will never cease, 


horn ! 

Bahry Cornwall. 


For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy 
cells. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



87 



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined 
flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are 
they ? 
Think not of them — thou hast thy music too : 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue : 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

John Keats. 



Autumn— a Dirge. 

The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is wailing : 
The bare boughs are sighing ; the pale flowers are 
dying ; 

And the Year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves dead. 
Is lying. 
Come, months, come away, 
From Xovcmbcr to ]\Iay ; 
In your saddest array 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is crawling; 

The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling 

For the Year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each 
gone 

To his dwelling ; 



Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray ; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



9il)e Scnsitiuc plant. 

PART FIRST. 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew. 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew. 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair. 
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, and the wilderness. 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 

Then the pied windflowers and the tulip tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
Till they die of their o^^Tl dear loveliness ; 

And the Xaiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth jiurple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fol(1 to the fainting air 
The soul of her bciiuty and love lay bare ; 



88 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
As a 3Ia?nad, its moonlight-colored cup, 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously. 

And starry river-buds glimmered by. 

And around them the soft stream did glide and 

dance 
Witli a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss. 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
And flowrets which drooping as day drooped too 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, 
To roof the glowworm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), 

Wiion Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them. 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 
With the liglit and the odor its neighl)or shed. 
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 

But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root. 
Received more than all. it loved more than ever. 
Wiiere none wanted but it, could belong to the 
giver. 



For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is fidl, 
It desires what it has not, the Beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams wiiich dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
Laden with light and odor. Avhich pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide. 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide. 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from Heaven above. 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love. 
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep. 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep. 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the ins3cts were 

drowned 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound : 
Whose waves never mark, though tliey ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only over head the swe?t nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as tiie day might fail. 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sen.sitivc 
Plant). 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight. 
The feeblest and yet the favorite. 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



89 



PART SECOND. 

There was a Power in this sweet place, 
All Eve i\\ this Eden ; a rulinri: grace 
Which to the flowers did they waken or dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth. 
Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth I 

She had no companion of mortal race. 

But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 

Told, whilst the moon kissed the sleep from her 

eyes, 
That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake 
Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake, 
As if yet around her he lingering were. 
Though the veil of daylight concealed him from 
her. 

Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest ; 
You might hear by the heaving of her breast, 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. 

And wherever her airy footstep trod. 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, witli shadowy sweep, 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender hands, 
And sustained them with rods and osier bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderlv. 



And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof, 
Into the rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full, 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banished insects, whose intent, 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris 

Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that 

kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Where butterflies dream of the life to come, 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of summer tide, 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she died ! 

PART THIRD. 

Three days the flowers of the garden fair. 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, were. 
Or the waves of Baia?, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners deep and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
And the silent motions of passing death. 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
Were bright witli tears as the crowd did pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and foul. 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul, 
Which at first was lively as if in sleeji. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weeji. 



90 



POEMS OF XATUBE. 



Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode. 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson now, 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf after leaf, day after day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and 

red. 
And white with the whiteness of what is dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, 

Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds. 

Till they clung round many a sweet flowers 

stem. 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks, 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless network of parasite bowers 
Massed into ruin ; and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the snow, 

All loathliest weeds began to grow, 

Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a 

speck. 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank. 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, 
Stretched out its long and hollow sliank. 
And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath. 
Filled the i)lace with a monstrous undergrowth, 
Prickly, and pulpous. and ])listering, and blue. 
Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 



And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould 
Started like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Their moss rotted off them, flake by flake, 

Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's 

stake. 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high, 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 
Made the running rivulet thick and dumb, 
And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like water- 
snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still. 
The vapors arose which have strength to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt. 
At night they were darkness no star could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
L'nseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burned and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant like one forbid 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves which together grew 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were he^vn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through every pore, 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his whip ; 
One choppy finger was on his lip : 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills, 
And they clanked at his girdle like manacles ; 

Ilis breath was a chain which without a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; 
He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne 
Bv the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 



Then the weeds which were forms of 

death 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Wiis but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 



living 



A FORSAKEN GARDEN. 



91 



And under the ioot>; of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want : 
The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air 
And were caught in the branches naked and bare. 

First there came down a thawing rain, 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Wliicli to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out. 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and stiff, 
And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 

When Winter had gone and Spring came back, 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and 

darnels, 
Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. 

CONCLUSIOX. 

Wliether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
Xo longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife. 
Where nothing is. but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant if one considers it. 
To ov>-n that death itself must be, 
Lilvc all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair. 
And all sweet shapes and odors there. 
In truth have never passed away : 
'Tis we, 'tis ours, arc changed; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight. 
There is no death nor chanire : their mi<rht 
Exceeds our orfrans. which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 

Percy Btsshe Shelley. 



^ i^orsakcn (5arbcn. 

Ix a coign of the cliff between lowland and high- 
land, 
At the sea-down's edge between windward and 
lee. 
Walled round with rocks as an inland island. 

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 

The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves 
of its roses 

Now lie dead. 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, 
To the low last edge of the long lone land. 
If a step should sound or a word be spoken, 
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's 
hand ? 
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless. 

Through branches and briers if a man make way, 
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless 
Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 

That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of 
time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 
These remain. 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not ; 
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 
dry ; 
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale 

calls not, 
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and wither 

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; 
Only the sun and the rain come hither 
All year long. 

The sun bums sere and the rain dishevels 
One gaunt bleak l)lossom of scentless breath. 

Only the wind here hovers and revels 

In a round where life seems barren as death. 



93 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, 

Haply of lovers none ever will know. 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
Years ago. 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look 
thither." 
Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the flowers 
to the sea ; 
For the foam flowers endure when the rose-blos- 
soms wither. 
And men that love lightly may die — but we? 
And the same wind sang and the same waves 
whitened. 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, 
Li the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had 
lightened, 

Love was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and then went 
whither ? 
And were one to the end — but what end, who 
knows f 
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither. 

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love 
them? 
What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them. 
Or the wave. 

All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the 
sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 

In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons here- 
after 
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or 
weep, 
When as they that are free now of weeping and 
laughter 

We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again for ever; 

Here change may come not till all change end. 
From the graves they have made they shall rise up 
never. 

Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 



Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground 
growing. 
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing 
Roll the sea. 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. 
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides 
humble 
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, 
Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand 
spread, 
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar. 
Death lies dead. 

Algernon Charles Swixburne. 



(ri)c Cattcr Uain. 

The latter rain. — it falls in anxious haste 
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste 
As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
But not a blade grows green as in the Spring ; 
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; 
The robins only mid the harvests sing. 
Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ; 
The rain falls still. — the fruit all ripened drops, 
It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ; 
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ; 
Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ; 
And all that once received the early rain 
Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 

Jones Very. 

Autumn. 

The Autumn is old : 

The sere leaves are flying; 

He hath gathered up gold, 
And now he is dying : 
Old age, begin sighing ! 

The vintage is ripe ; 

The harvest is heaping ; 
But some that have sowed 

Have no riches for reaping: 



Poor wretch, fall a-weeping 



■ 
AUTU3IN'S SIGHING. 03 




The year's in the wane ; 


Xow bright Pleasure's 




There is nothing adorning ; 


Sparkling measures 




The night has no eve. 


With rare treasures 




And the day has no morning ; 


Overflow ! 




Cold winter gives warning. 


With this gladness 
Comes what sadness ! 




The rivers run chill ; 


Oh, what madness ! 




The red sun is sinking ; 


Oh, what woe ! 




And I am grown old, 






And life is fast shrinking ; 


Even merit 




Here's enow for sad thinking ! 


May Inherit 




Thomas Hood. 


Some bare garret, 
Or the ground : 
Or, a worse ill, 




Autumn's Sigliing. 


Beg a morsel 
At some door-sill. 




AuTUMx's sighing, 


Like a hound I 




Moaning, dying ; 






Clouds are flying 


Storms are trailing ; 




On like steeds ; 


Winds are wailing. 




While their shadows 


Howling, railing 




O'er the meadows 


At each door. 




Walk like widows 


'Midst this trailing, 




Decked in weeds. 


Howling, railing. 




Red leaves trailing, 


List the wailing 




Fall unfailing, 


Of the poor ! 




Dropping, sailing, 


Thomas Buchanan Read. 




From the wood, 






That, unpliant, 






Stands defiant, 


(j;i)e Snii (Srccn. 




Like a giant 
Dropping blood. 


Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 
That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 




Winds are swelling 


Of right choice food are his meals, 1 ween, 




Round our dwelling, 


In his cell so lone and cold. 




All day telling 


The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, 




Us their woe ; 


To pleasure his dainty whim ; 




And at vesper 


And the mouldering dust that years have made 




Frosts gi'ow crisper, 


Is a merry meal for him. 




As they whisper 


Creeping whore no life is seen. 




Of the snow. 


A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 




From th' unseen land 


Fast he stealeth on. though he wears no wings, 




Frozen inland, 


And a staunch old heart has he I 




Down from Greenland 


IIow closely he twineth, how tight he clings. 




Winter glides. 


To his friend the huge oak-tree ! 




Shedding lightness 


And slyly he traileth along the ground, 




Like the In-ightness 


And his leaves he gently waves. 




When moon-whiteness 


And he joyously twines and hugs around 




Fills the tides. 


The rich mould of dead men's graves. 



94 P0E3IS OF NATURE. 


Creeping where no life is seen, 


As circles on a smooth canal. 


A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 


The mountains round, unhappy fate 1 




Sooner or later, of all height, 


Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 


Withdraw their summits from the skies. 


And nations have scattered been ; 


And lessen as the others rise. 


But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 


Still the prospect wider spreads. 


From its hale and hearty green. 


Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 


The brave old plant in its lonely days 


Still it widens, widens still, 


Shall fatten upon the past ; 


And sinks the newly-risen hill. 


For the stateliest building man can raise 


Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 


Is the IWa food at last. 


What a landscape lies below ! 


Creeping where no life is seen, 


No clouds, no vapors intervene ; 


A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 


But the gay, the open scene 


Charles Dickens. 


Does the face of Nature show 




In all the hues of heaven's bow ! 




And, swelling to embrace the light, 


(Srongar ^ill. 


Spreads around beneath the sight. 
Old castles on the cliffs arise, 


Silent nymph, with curious eye, 


Proudly towering in the skies ; 


Who, the purple evening, lie 


Rushing from the woods, the spires 


On the mountain's lonely van, 


Seem from hence ascending fires ; 


Beyond the noise of busy man — 


Half his beams Apollo sheds 


Painting fair the form of things, 


On the yellow mountain-heads. 


Wiiile the yellow linnet sings, 


Gilds tlie fleeces of the flocks, 


Or the tuneful nightingale 


And glitters on the broken rocks. 


Charms the forest with her tale — 


Below me trees unnumbered rise. 


Come, with all thy various hues, 


Beautiful in various dyes : 


Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 


The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 


Xow, while Phcebus, riding high, 


The yellow beech, the sable yew. 


Gives lustre to the land and sky. 


The slender fir that taper grows. 


Grongar Hill invites my song — 


The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; 


Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 


And beyond, the purple grove. 


Grongar, in whose mossy cells 


Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 


Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 


Gaudy as the opening dawn. 


Grongar, in whose silent shade, 


Lies a long and level lawn, 


For the modest Muses made. 


On which a dark hill, steep and high. 


So oft I have, the evening still, 


Holds and charms the wandering eye ; 


At the fountain of a rill, 


Deep are his feet in Towy's flood : 


Sat upon a flowery l)ed. 


His sides are clothed with waving wood : 


Witii my hand beneath my head, 


And ancient towers crown his brow, 


While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 


That cast an awful look below ; 


Over mead and over wood, 


Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 


From house to house, from hill to hill, 


And with her arms from falling keeps; 


Till Contemplation had her fill. 


So both, a safety from the wind 


About his checkered sides I wind, 


In mutual dependence find. 


And leave his brooks and meads behind, 


'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 


And groves and grottoes where I lay, 


'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ; 


And vistas shooting beams of day. 


And there the fox securely feeds ; 


Wide and wider spreads the vale. 


And there the poisonous adder breeds. 



GRONGAR HILL. 95 


Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 


And never covet what I see ; 


While, ever and anon, there fall 


Content me with an humble shade, 


Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall. 


My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 


Yet Time has seen — that lifts the low 


For while our wishes wildly roll. 


And level lays the lofty brow — 


We banish quiet from the soul. 


Has seen this broken i)ilc complete, 


'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 


Big with the vanity of state. 


And misers gather wealth and care. 


But transient is the smile of Fate ! 


Now, even now, my joys run high, 


A little rule, a little sway, 


As on the mountain turf I lie ; 


A sunbeam in a winter's day, 


While the w^anton Zephyr sings. 


Is all the proud and mighty have 


And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 


Between the cradle and the grave. 


While the waters murmur deep ; 


And see the rivers, how they run 


While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 


Through woods and meads, in shade and sun. 


While the birds unbounded ily, 


Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 


And with music fill the sky. 


Wave succeeding wave, they go 


Now, even now, my joys run high. 


A various journey to the deep, 


Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 


Like human life to endless sleep ! 


Search for Peace with all your skill ; 


Thus is Nature's vesture wrought 


Open wide the lofty door, 


To instruct our wandering thought ; 


Seek her on the marble floor. 


Thus she dresses green and gay 


In vain you search ; she is not here ! 


To disperse our cares away. 


In vain you search the domes of Care 1 


Ever charming, ever new. 


Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 


When will the landscape tire the view I 


On the meads and mountain-heads. 


The fountain's fall, the river's flow ! 


Along with Pleasure — close allied. 


The woody valleys, warm and low ; 


Ever by each other's side ; 


The windy summit, wild and high, 


And often, by the murmuring rill. 


Roughly rushing on the sky ; 


Hears the thrush, while all is still 


The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, 


Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 


The naked rock, the shady bower ; 


John Dyer. 


The town and village, dome and farm — 




Each gives each a double charm, 




As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 


JConcmbcr. 


See on the mountain's southern side, 




Where the prospect opens wide. 


The mellow year is hasting to its close ; 


Where the evening gilds the tide, 


The little birds have almost sung their last, 


How close and small the hedges lie ; 


Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 


What streaks of meadow cross the eye ! 


That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; 


A step, methinks, jnay pass the stream, 


The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 


So little distant dangers seem ; 


Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed. 


So we mistake the Future's face, 


Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past, 


Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; 


And makes a little summer where it grows, 


As yon summits, soft and fair. 


In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 


Clad in colors of the air, 


The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 


Which, to those who journey near, 


The russet leaves obstruct the straggling w^ay 


Barren, brown, and rough appear; 


Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 


Still we tread the same coarse way — 


And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 


The i)re.sent's still a cloudy day. 


Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 


Oh may I with myself agree, 


Hartley Coleridge. 



96 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



i'olbing tlic i^locks. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 

Fold your flocks up ; for the air 

'Gins to thicken, and the sun 

Already his great course hath run. 

See the dew-drops, how they kiss 

Every little flower that is : 

Hanging on their velvet heads. 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 

And bright Hesperus down calling 

The dead night from under ground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapors, fly apace. 

And hover o'er the smiling face 

Of these pastures ; where they come, 

Striking dead both bud and bloom. 

Therefore from such danger lock 

Every one his loved flock : 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 

From the mountain, and, ere day, 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox, 

Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these, 

Be not too secure in ease ; 

So shall you good shepherds prove, 

And deserve your master's love. 

Now, good night ! may sweetest slumbers 

And soft silence fall in numbers 

On your eyelids. So farewell : 

Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



jBuglc Song. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dyingi 

Oh hark, oh hear I how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, further going! 

sweet and far, from cliff and scar. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 



Blow ! let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying ! 

love, they die in yon rich sky ; 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our ecnoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, dying ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



(Tlic Q:ti Citing tOinb. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice ! thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day I 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high 
their spray. 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 

Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Lihale thee in the fulness of delight ; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 

And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the 
sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth — 

God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and 
rouse 
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the 
grass. 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing lierbage by the gloaming stone ; 

That they who near the churchyard willows 
stray. 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 



ODE TO EVENING. 



97 



May think of gentle souls that passed away, 

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of 

men. 
And gone into the boundless heaven again. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more 
deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty 
range, 
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more. 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

WILLIA3I CULKBN BRTA^T. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

Tlie round of space, and rapt below, 
Through all the dewy-tasselled wood, 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas, 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 

To where, in yonder orient star, 
A hundred spirits whisper " Peace ! " 

Alfred Tennyson. 



©be ta ^ocning. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear. 

Like thy own brawling springs, 

Thy springs and dying gales — 

Xymph reserved while now the bright-haired 

Sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his vfuxj bed : 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed 

bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing ; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening 

vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with 

sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew ; and lovelier stiU, 

The pensive pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells, 

WTiose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That from the mountain's side. 

Views wilds, and swelling floods. 



98 POEMS OF NATURE. 

1 




And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires ; 


Invisible ; the ear alone 




And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er 


Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 




all 


Echo to echo, groan for groan. 




Thy dewy fingers draw 


From deep to deep replies. 




The gradual dusky veil. 


Silence again the darkness seals, 




While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 


Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 




wont, 


The silver-clouded east reveals 




And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 


The midnight spectre of the moon. 




While Summer loves to sport 


In half-eclipse she lifts her horn. 




Beneath thy lingering light ; 


Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme 
Brings the faint semblance of a morn, 




While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 


With her awakening beam. 




Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 
Affrights thy shrinking train. 


Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 




And rudely rends thy robes ; 


Unreal mockeries appear ; 
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights. 




So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favorite name ! 

William Collins. 


Emerging as she climbs the sphere ; 
A crowd of apparitions pale ! 

I hold my breath in chill suspense — 
They seem so exquisitely frail — 

Lest they should vanish hence. 

I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 
Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace. 




(Ptjening in tlic ^Ips. 


Like Dian's crescent far beneath. 
As beautiful as Dian's face : 




Come, golden Evening ; in the west 


Pride of the land that gave me birth ! 




Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 


All that thy waves reflect I love. 


1 


And let the triple rainbow rest 


Where heaven itself, brought down to earth, 


1 


O'er all the mountain-tops. 'Tis done ; 


Looks fairer than above. 




The tempest ceases ; bold and bright, 






The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 


Safe on thy banks again I stray ; 




Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; 


The trance of poesy is o'er, 




Mont Blunc is lovely still ! 


And I am here at dawn of day. 
Gazing on mountains as before, 




There take thy stand, my spirit ; spread 


Where all the strange mutations wrought 




Tlio world of shadows at thy feet ; 


Were magic feats of my own mind ; 




And mark how calmly, overhead. 


For, in that faiiy land of thought. 




The stars, like saints in glory, meet. 


Whate'er 1 seek, I find. 




While hid in solitude sublime, 






iMethinks 1 muse on Nature's tomb, 


Yet, ye everlasting hills ! 




And hear the passing foot of Time 


Buildings of God, not made with hands, 




Step through the silent gloom. 


Whose word performs whate'er He wills. 
Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands ; 




All in a moment, crash on crash, 


Can there be eyes that look on you, 




From precipice to precipice 


Till tears of rapture make them dim, 




An avalanche's ruins dash 


Nor in his works the Maker view, 




Down to the nethermost abyss, 


Then lose his works in Him ? 



TO NIGHT. 99 


By me, when I behold Him not, 


Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 


Or love Him not when I behold. 


Touching all with thine opiate wand — 


Be all I ever knew forgot — 


Come, long-sought ! 


My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold ; 




Transformed to ice, 'twixt earth and sky, 
On yonder clifE my form be seen. 


When 1 arose and saw the dawn, 


I sighed for thee ; 


That all may ask, but none reply. 
What my offence hath been. 


When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 


And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 


ti 


And the weary Day turned to her rest. 


James Montgomery. 






Lingering like an unloved guest, 




I sighed for thee ! 


®o tl)c (S:ucninQ Star. 


Thy brother Death came, and cried. 


' ^ 


'' ^Youldst thou me ? " 


Star that bringest home the bee, 


Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 


And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 


Murmured like a noontide bee. 


If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, 


" Shall I nestle near thy side ? 


That send'st it from above, 


Wouldst thou me?" — And I replied, 


Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 


" No, not thee ! " 


Are sweet as hers we love. 






Death will come when thou art dead. 


Come to the luxuriant skies, 


Soon, too soon — 


Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 


Sleep will come when thou art fled : 


Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, 


Of neither would I ask the boon 


And songs when toil is done. 


I ask of thee, beloved Night — 


From cottages whose smoke unstirred 


Swift be thine approaching flight, 


Curls yellow in the sun. 


Come soon, soon ! 


Star of love's soft interviews, 


Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Parted lovers on thee muse ; 




Their remembrancer in Heaven 




Of thrilling vows thou art, 


iHoonrisc. 


Too delicious to be riven, 




By absence, from the heart. 


W^HAT stands upon the highland ? 


Thomas Campbell. 


What walks across the rise. 




As though a starry island 




Were sinking down the skies? 


®o Xiglit. 


WHiat makes the trees so golden ? 




What decks the mountain side. 


Swiftly walk over the western wave, 


7 

Like a veil of silver folden 


Spirit of night ! 


Round the white brow of a bride ? 


Out of the misty eastern cave. 




Where, all the long and lone daylight. 


The magic moon is breaking. 


Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 


Like a conqueror, from the east, 


Which make thee terrible and dear — 


The waiting world awaking 


Swift be thy flight ! 


To a golden fairy feast. 


Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 


She works, with touch ethereal. 


Star-inwrought ; 


By changes strange to see, 


Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 


The cypress, so funereal. 


Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 


To a lightsome fairy tree ; 

1 



100 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



Black rocks to marble turning, 

Like palaces of kings ; 
On ruin windows burning, 

A festal glory flings ; 

The desert halls uplighting. 

While falling shadows glance, 
Like courtly crowds uniting 

For the bancj[uet or the dance ; 

With ivory wand she numbers 

The stars along the sky ; 
And breaks the billows' slumbers 

With a love-glance of her eye ; 

Along the cornfields dances. 

Brings bloom upon the sheaf ; 
From tree to tree she glances, 

And touches leaf by leaf ; 

Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; 

Tlirough their half -closed eyelids gleams ; 
With her white torch through the meadows 

Lights the shy deer to the streams. 

The magic moon is breaking, 
Like a conqueror, from the east. 

And the joyous world partaking 
Of her golden fairy feast. 

Ernest Jones. 



Sonnet. 

The crimson Moon uprising from the sea, 
With large delight foretells the harvest near. 
Ye shepherds, now prepare your melody, 
To greet the soft appearance of her sphere ! 

And like a page, enamored of her train. 
The star of evening glimmers in the west : 
Then raise, ye shepherds, your observant strain. 
That so of the Great Sliepherd here are blest ! 

Our fields are full with the time-ripened grain, 
Our vineyards wilh the purple clusters swell ; 
Her golden splendor glimmers on the main. 
And vales and m<Huitains her bright glory tell. 
Then sing, ye sheijjierds I for the time is come 
When wc nmst Ijring the enriched harvest home. 

Lord Thurlow. 



dTo tl)c §art)cst illoon. 

Cum ruit imbrifernm ver : 
Spicea jam campis cum raessis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon of Harvest, herald mild 

Of Plenty, rustic labor's child, 

Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam. 

As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 

And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide, 

Where Innocence and Peace reside ! 
'Tis thou that gladd'st with Joy the rustic 

throng. 
Promptest the tripping dance,' the exhilarating 
song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove, 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky. 
Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy 
way. 

Pleasing 'tis, modest Moon ! 
Now the night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie. 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
Ripened by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon, 

O modest Moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road. 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest-home. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains. 
Stern despoilers of the plains. 
Hence, away, the season flee, 
Foes to light-heart jollity ! 
May no winds careering high 
Drive the clouds along the sky, 



TO yiGIIT. 



101 



But may all Nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, 
harvest Moon ! 

'Xeath yon lowly roof he lies, 
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes : 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The vard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blus- 
tering whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo ; 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

Wliile feverish dreams surround your head ; 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade, 

Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune. 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 

Hexry Kirke White. 



Mgllt Song. 

The moon is up in splendor, 
And golden stars attend her : 

The heavens are calm and bright ; 
Trees cast a deepening shadow. 
And slowly off the meadow 

A mist is rising silver-white. 

Xight's curtains now are closing 
Round half a world reposing 

In calm and holy trust. 
All seems one vast still chamber, 
Where weary hearts remember 

No more the sorrows of the dust. 

Matthias Claudius. (German.) 
Translation of C. T. Brooks. 



Zo Xiglit. 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
And lo I creation widened in man's view. 
Wlio could have thought such darkness lay con- 
cealed 
Within thy beams, Sun I or who could find, 
While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind I 
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife f — 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



Song. — Z\v: (Drol. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb. 

And the whirring sail goes round. 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the l:)elfry sits. 

Wlien merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smeUs the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay. 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfrv sits. 



SECOXD SOXG — TO THE SAME. 

Thy tuwhits are lulled. I wot. 

Thy tuwhoos of yester night, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 

That her voice, untuneful grown. 
Wears all dav a fainter tone. 



103 



FOEJIS OF NATURE. 



I would mock tliy chaiint anew; 

But I can not mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 

With a lengthened loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo^ tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



While the moon, with sudden gleam, 
Through the clouds that cover her, 
Darts her light npon the stream, 
And the poplars gently stir ; 
Pleased I hear thy Ijoding cry, 
Owl, that Tov'^st the cloudy sky ! 
Sure thy notes are harmony. 

Wliile the maiden, pale with care, 

Wanders to the lonely shade, 
Sighs her sorrows to the air. 
While the flowerets round her fade, — 
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 
Owl. that lov'st the cloudy sky. 
To her it is not harmony. 

While the wretch with mournful dole. 

Wrings his hands in agony, 
Praying for his brotlier's soul. 
Whom he pierced suddenly. — 
Shrinks to hear thy lx)ding cry ; 
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky. 
To him it is not harmony. 

Anonymous. 



iri)c (Cricket. 

LiTTLK inmate, full of mirth. 
Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Wheresoe'er he thine abode 
Always harl)inger of good. 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song more soft and sweet ; 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a strain as I can give. 



Thus thy praise shall be expressed, 
Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 
While the rat is on the scout, 
And the mouse with curious snout, 
With what vermin else infest 
Every dish, and spoil the best ; 
Frisking thus before the fire. 
Thou hast all thy heart's desire. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
• Formed as if akin to thee. 
Thou surpassest, happier far. 
Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 
Theirs is but a summer's song — 
Thine endures the winter long, 
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy play. 
Sing, then, and extend thy span 
Far beyond the date of man. 
Wretched man, whose years are spent 
In repining discontent. 
Lives not, aged though he be. 
Half a span, compared with thee. 

Vincent Bourne. (Latin.) 
Translation of William Cowpek. 



®o a Cricket. 

Voice of Summer, keen and shrill. 
Chirping round my winter fire. 
Of thy song I never tire. 
Weary others as they will ; 
For thy song with Summer's filled — 
Filled with sunshine, filled with June; 
Firelight echo of that noon 
Heard in fields when all is stilled 
In the golden light of May. 
Bringing scents of new-mown hay. 
Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 
Prithee, haunt my fireside still. 
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill I 

William C. Bennett. 



FAXCY. 



10:3 



Sleep. 

HAPPY sleep I that bear'st upon thy breast 
The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest, 

Draw near me through the stillness of this place 
And let thy low breath move across my face, 
As faint winds move above a poplar's crest. 

The broad seas darken slowly in the west ; 
The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest ; 
Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space, 
happy Sleep ! 

There is no sorrow hidden or confessed 
There is no passion uttered or suppressed,- 

Thou canst not for a little while efface ; 

Enfold me in thy mystical embrace. 

Thou sovereign gift of God most sweet, most blest, 

happy Sleep I 

Ada Louise 3lARTrs'. 



^ Doubting ^eart. 

Where are the swallows fled ? 

Frozen and dead 
Parchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
doubting heart ! 
Far over purple seas. 
They wait, in sunny ease. 
The balmy southern breeze 
To bring them to their northern homes once more. 

Why must the flowers die ? 
Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
doubting heart I 
They only sleep Ijelow 
The soft white ermine snow 
WTiile winter winds shall blow. 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 

These many days ; 
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 
doubting heart I 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky 
That soon, for Spring is nigh, 
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. 



Fair hope is dead, and light 

Is quenched in night : 
What sound can break the silence of despair ? 
doubting heart ! 
The sky is overcast. 
Yet stars shall rise at last. 
Brighter for darkness past. 
And angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide Axxe Procteb. 



i^a net}. 

Ever let the Fancy roam : 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spreiid beyond her 

Open wide the mind's cage-door — 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy I let her loose ! 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming. 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too. 

Blushing through the mist and dew. 

Cloys with tasting. What do then f 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright. 

Spirit of a winter's night : 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughlDoy's hea%'T shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overawed. 

Fancy, high-commissioned ; — send her I 

She has vassals to attend her ; 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost : — 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weather : 

All the V)uds and bells of May. 

From dewy sward or thorny spray : 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth ; — 

With a still, mysterious stealth ; 



104 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit Avines in a cup. 

And thou shalt quaff it, — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest -carols clear — 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'Tis the early April lark, — 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-gi'own primrose that hath bui*st : 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep : 

And the snake, all winter-thin, 

Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 

When tlic hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest ; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering 

While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh sweet Fancy ! let her loose ! 
Every thing is spoilt by use ; 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary ? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so veiy oft ! 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles wlien rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter 
Ere the god of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 



White as Hebe's when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet. 

While she held the goblet sweet. 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string. 

And such joys as these she'll bring. — 

Let the winged Fancy roam ; 

Pleasure never is at home. 

John Keats. 



Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the midnight tempests howl ! 

With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; 

Or whistle and shriek 

Through limbs that creak. 

" Tu-who ! Tu-whit ! " 

They cry, and flit, 
" Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! " like the solemn owl ! 

Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof. 
Sweep the moaning winds amain, 

And wildly dash 

The elm and ash. 
Clattering on the window sash 

With a clatter and patter 

Like hail and rain, 

That well-nigh shatter 

The dusky pane ! 

Alow and aloof. 

Over the roof. 
How the tempests swell and roar I 

Though no foot is astir. 

Though the cat and the cur 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 

There are feet of air 

On every stair — 

Through every hall ! 

Through each gusty door 

There's a jostle and bustle, 

With a silken rustic. 
Like the meeting of guests at a festival I 



THE MIDNIGHT V^'IND. 



105 



Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 

And make the vane 

On the spire complain ; 
They heave at the steeple with might and main. 

And burst and sweep 

Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 

That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 

Thomas Buchanan Kead. 



jBlotD, blotD, tl)au tointcr tXlinb. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind — 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly ! 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky — 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly ! 

William Shakespeare. 



^\\z illibniglit toinb. 

Mournfully ! oh, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth sigh, 
Like some sweet, plaintive melody 

Of ages long gone by ! 
It speaks a tale of other years, — 

Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 
Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 

And loves that moulderinjr lie I 



Mournfully ! oh, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth moan ! 
It stirs some chord of memory 

In each dull, heavy tone ! 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
All, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death had made it lone. 

Mournfully ! oh, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth swell 
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy, — 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dreamy joys of early years. 

Ere yet grief's canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 

William Motherwell. 



READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree ! 
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear 

Harsh and austere — 
To those who on my leisure would intnide, 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 



106 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The holly-leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 

More grave than they : 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly-tree. 

Robert Southet. 



fcOoobs in tl3iutcr« 

When winter winds arc piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill 
That overbrows the lonely vale* 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke, — 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron riugs, 
And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green. 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wnitry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
1 listen, and it cheers me long. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



5Cortl) toinb. 

Loud wind ! strong wind ! sweeping o'er the moun- 
tains ; 

Fresh wind ! free wind ! blowing from the sea. 

Pour forth thy vials like torrents from air foun- 
tains. 

Draughts of life to me. 

Clear wind ! cold wind ! like a northern giant. 
Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair, 
Thrilling the blank night with thy voice defiant — 
Lo ! I meet thee there I 

Wild wind ! bold wind ! like a strong-armed angel 
Clasp me and kiss me with thy kisses divine ! 
Breathe in this dulled ear thy secret, sweet evangel, — 
Mine, and only mine ! 

Fierce wind ! mad wind ! howling o'er the nations ! 
Knew'st thou how leapcth my heart as thou goest by. 
Ah ! thou wouldst jDause awhile in sudden patience. 
Like a human sigh ! 

Sharp wind ! keen wind ! cutting as word arrows. 
Empty thy quiver-full ! Pass by ! what is't to thee. 
That in some mortal eyes life's whole bright circle 

narrows 
To one misery ? 

Loud wind ! strong wind ! stay thou in the moun- 
tains ; 

Fresh wind ! free wind ! trouble not the sea ! 

Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm 
fou mains 

That I hear not thee ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



THE SX0W-ST0R31. 



107 



^\)t Snou)- Storm. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow ; and. driving o'er the fields 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 

feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof ; 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door 
Speeding, the m^Tiad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths, 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs : and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the 

world 
Is all his own, retiring as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow stnictures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age. the mad wind's night-work, 
The frolic ai'chitecture of the snow. 

Ealph Waldo Emerson. 



Sannct. 

TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATEB9 OF 
LA A KEN IN THE WINTER. 

MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day 
Thou standest by the margin of the pool, 
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being 
school 

To patience, which all evil can allay. 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 

And his unthinking course In' thee to weigh. 



There need not schools nor the professor's chair, 
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart ; 

He who has not enough for these to spare, 
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 

And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair — 
Nature is always wise in ever}' part. 

Lord Thcrlow, 



®o tl)c Ucbbrcast. 

Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early hours 
Of winters past or coming, void of care ; 
Well pleased with delights which present are, 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flow- 
ers — 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's tunnoils, spites, and wrongs. 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven ! 
Sweet, artless songster I thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 

William Drummond. 



!^ftcrnaon in i^cbruarn. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
Tlie river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 
The road o'er the plain ; 

"While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 



108 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 

Hexry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



^ Song for tl)c Seasons. 

When the merry lark doth gild 

With his song the summer hours, 
And their nests the swallows build 

In the roofs and tops of towers, 
And the golden broom-flower burns 

All about the waste. 
And the maiden May returns 

With a pretty haste, — 

Then^ how merry are the times ! 

The Summer times ! the Spring times 1 

Now, from off the ashy stone 

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, 
And all merry birds are flown, 

And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
.Now the once blue, laughing sky 

Saddens into gray, 
And the frozen rivers sigh. 

Pining all away ! 
Nou\ how solemn are the times ! 
The Winter times ! the Night times ! 

Yet, be merry : all around 

Is through one vast change revolving; 
Even Night, who lately frowned, 

Is in paler dawn dissolving ; 
Earth will burst her fetters strange. 

And in Spring grow free ; 
All things in the world will change, 
Save — my love for thee ! 

Sing then, hopeful are all times ! 
Winter, Summer, Spring times ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



Dirge for tlje Qear. 

Orphan Hours, the Year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry Hours, smile instead. 
For the Year is but asleep : 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping. 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay, 
So white Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day ; 
Solemn Hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child, 

So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild, 

Trembling Hours ; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 
February bears the bier; 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps — but, ye Hours! 
Follow with May's fairest flowers. 

Percy Bysshe Shellet. 



Sonnet. 

Die down, dismal day ! and let me live. 

And come, blue deeps ! magnificently strewn 
W^ith colored clouds — large, light, and fugitive — 

By upper winds through pompous motions blown. 
Now it is death in life — a vapor dense 

Creeps round my window till I cannot see 
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens 

Shagging the mountain-tops. God I make 
free 
This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold — 

Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies 
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, 

Wliile she performs her customed charities. 
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare — 
God ! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air ! 

David Gray. 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 



109 



^xmw to \\]c Spirit of Mature. 

Life of Life I Thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 

And thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 

In those locks, where whoso gazes 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning 
Through the veil which seems to hide them. 

As the radiant lines of morning 
Through thin clouds, ere they divide them ; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 
Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendor ; 
And all feel, yet see thee never, — 
As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth I where'er thou movest, 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Jnflncncc of ^'ntural (Dbjccts. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art. the eternity of thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build np our human soul — 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of ]\ran. 
But with high objects, with enduring things, 
With Life and Nature ; purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear. — until we recognize 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to mo 



With stinted kindness. In XovemV)er days, 

When vapors rolling down the valleys made 

A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 

At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 

Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 

In solitude, such intercourse was mine. 

Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 

And by the waters, all the Summer long ; 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 

Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 

The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 

I heeded not the summons. Happy time 

It was indeed for all of us ; for me 

It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 

The village-clock tolled six ; I wheeled about. 

Proud and exulting like an untired horse 

That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 

We hissed along the polished ice, in games 

Confederate, imitative of the chase 

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle. With the din 

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 

Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills 

Into the tumult sent an alien sound 

Of melancholy, not unnoticed ; while the stars. 

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 

The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
To cut across the reflex of a star — 
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain. And oftentimes, 
When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping thro' the darkness, spinning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short ; yet still tlie solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me. — even as if the Eartli had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler ; and I stixxl and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

William Wordsworth, 



110 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



BEFORE SUNRISE, IX THE YALE OF CHAMOUXI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — 
An ebon mass. Methiuks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in 
prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought — 
Yea. with my life and life's own secret joy — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, tran fused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul I not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 
vale ! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink — 
Com{)anion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald — wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Wlio called you forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precij)itous, black, jagged rocks, 



For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came). 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts I 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flow- 
ers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? 
God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 

voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter fortli God. and fill the hills with praise ! 
Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Ilierarch! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



PAET II. 



POE^IS OF CHILDHOOD 



Elle avait clix ans, et moi trente ; 

J'etais pour elle runivers. 
Oh 1 comme Therbe est odorante 

Sons les arbres profouds et verts ! 

Elle faisait mon sort prospere, 
Mon travail le^er. mon ciel bleu. 

Lorsqu'elle me disait : Mon pere, 
Tout mon coeur s"ecriait : Mon Dieu ! 

Les anges se miraient en elle. 

Que son bonjour etait charmant ! 
Le ciel mettait dans sa prunelle 

Ce regard qui jamais ne ment. 



Oh I je Tavais. si jeune encore, 
Vue apparaitre en mon destin ! 

C"etait Tenfant de mon aurore, 
Et mon etoile du matin ! 

Victor Hugo. 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Inti'obnction. 

Piping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he, laughing, said to me : 

" Pipe a song about a lamb." 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

" Piper, pipe that song again.'' 
So I piped ; he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe. 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 

So I sung the same again. 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

'* Piper, sit thee down and write, 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanished from my sight. 
And I plucked a hollow reed ; 

And I made a rural pen : 
And I stained the water clear. 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 



Da bn ill at}. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 



JO 



Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries; 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion. 
Making every limb all motion ; 
Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
Throwings back and small alarms ; 
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
Kickings up and straining risings; 
Mothers ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled repronngs 
That have more of love than lovings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
Graspings small at all that passes ; 
Pullings off of all that's able 
To be cauglit from tray or table ; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches: 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings; 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking. 
And we'd always have thee waking ; 



U4 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
Beauty all that beauty may be ; — 
That's May Bennett ; that's ray baby. 

William Cox Beknett. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go ; 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
AVhile my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest : 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Rest, rest on mother's breast ; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Father will come to his babe in the nest ; 
Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon ; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Alfred Texxyson. 



(Cl)oosini9 a Xamc. 

I HAVE got a new-lx)rn sister : 
I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
When the nursing-woman brought her 
To papa, his infant daughter, 
How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! 
She will shortly be to christen ; 
And papa has made the offer. 
I shall iiave the naming of her. 

Now I wonder wtmt would please her — 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa f 
Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 
Joan's too formal for a woman ; 



Jane's a prettier name beside ; 
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books ; 
Ellen's left off long ago ; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet 
Are so good as Margaret. 
Emily is neat and fine ; 
What do you think of Caroline? 
How I'm puzzled and perplexed 
What to choose or think of next ! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mart Lamb. 



(ri)e Cliristcning. 

Arrayed — a half-angelic sight — 

\\\ vests of pure baptismal white. 

The mother to the font doth bring 

The little helpless, nameless thing 

With hushes soft and mild caressing, 

At once to get — a name and blessing. 

Close by the babe the priest doth stand, 

The cleansing water at his hand 

Which must assoil the soul within 

From every stain of x\dam's sin. 

The infant eyes the mystic scenes. 

Nor knows what all this wonder means; 

And now he smiles, as if to say, 

" I am a Christian made this day ; " 

Now fi'ighted clings to nurse's hold, 

Shrinking from the water cold, 

Wliose virtues, rightly understood, 

Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 

Strange words, " The world, the flesh, the devil," 

Poor l)abe. what can it know of evil ? 

But we must silently adore 

Mysterious truths, and not explore. 

Enough for him, in after-times, 

When he shall read these artless rhymes, 

If, looking back upon this day 

With quiet conscience, he can say, 



CUDDLE DOOX. 



115 



" I have in part redeemed the pledge 

Of my baptismal privilege ; 

And more and more will strive to flee 

All which my sponsors kind did then renounce for 



me. 



Charles Lamb. 



€ttbble a)oon. 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' muckle faucht an' din ; 
0, try ^n' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, 

Your father's comin' in. 
They never heed a word I speak ; 

I try to gie a froon, 
But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Wee Jamie wi' the curly held — 

He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece ; " 

The rascal starts them a'. 
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks. 

They stop awee the soun' ; 
Then draw the blankets up an' cry, 

" Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." 

But ere five minutes gang, w^ee Rab 

Cries oot frac 'ncath the claes, 
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance — 

He's kittlin wi' his taes." 
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks. 

He'd bother half the toon : 
But aye I hap them up an' cry, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

At length they hear their father's fit, 

An', as he steeks the door, 
They turn their faces to the wa'. 

While Tam pretends to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been gude ? "' he asks, 

As he pits off his shoon ; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 

An' lang since cuddled doon." 

An' just afore we bed oorsel'. 

We look at oor wee lambs ; 
Tam has his airms roun' wee Rab's neck. 

An' Rab his airms roun' Tam's. 



I lift wee Jamie iii) the bed. 

An' as I straik each croon, 
I whisper, till my heart fills up, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
But sune the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
Yet come what will to ilka ane. 

May He who sits aboon 
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, 

" bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Alexander Anderson. 



toillic toinUic. 

Wee Willie Winkle rins through the town, 
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now ten 
o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat's singing' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a 

cheep ; 
But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! — glow'rin' like the 

moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' 

folk! 

Hey. Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her 

thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin iiis lane. 

That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an 

ee; 

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew 

to me. 

William Miller. 



116 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Z\\c Dcab Doll. 

You need n't be trying to comfort me — I tell you 

my dolly is dead ! 
There's no use in saying she is n't, with a crack like 

that in her head. 
It's just like you said it would n't hurt much to 

have my tooth out, that day ; 
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, 

you had n't a word to sav. 



And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when 

you say you can mend it with glue : 
As if I did n't know better than that I ^Miy, just 

suppose it was you ? 
\''ou might make her look all mended — but what 

do I care for looks ? 
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys and the 

backs of books ! 

My dolly ! my own little daughter ! Oh, but it's 

the awfullest crack I 
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when 

her poor head went whack 
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the 

little shelf. 
Now. Nursey. what makes you remind me? I 

know that I did it myself ! 

1 think you must be crazy — you'll get her an- 
other head ! 

What good would forty heads do her ? I tell you 
my dolly is dead ! 

And to think I had n't quite finished her elegant 
new spring hat I 

And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie 
on that horrid cat ! 



Wlien my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was 
playing out in the yard — 

She said to me. most expressly, " Here's a ribbon 
for Ilildegarde." 

And ] wont and put it on Tabby, and Ilildegarde 
saw me do it ; 

But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind. I don't be- 
lieve she knew it I " 



But I know that she knew it now, and I just be- 
lieve, I do. 

That her poor little heart was broken, and so her 
head broke too. 

Oh, my baby ! my little baby ! I wish my head 
had been hit ! 

For I've hit it over and over, and it has n't cracked 
a bit. 

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be 

buried, of course : 
We will take my little wagon, Xurse, and you shall 

be the horse ; 
And I'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in 

this, you see — 
This dear little box — and we'll bury her there out 

under the maple-tree. 

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one 

he made for my bird ; 
And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes, every 

single word ! 
I shall say : " Here lies Ilildegarde, a beautiful doll, 

who is dead ; 
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in 

her head." Margaret Vandegrift. 



Clic ^ngcTs tOliispcr. 

A superstition prevails in Ireland that, when a child 
smiles in its sleep, it is '■ talking with angels." 

A BABY was sleeping ; 

Its mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to 



me 



\ " 



Her beads while she numbered. 

The baljy still slumbered, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 

" Oh, blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning. 
For I know that the angels are whispering with 
thee. 

" And wliile they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 



PHILIP, MY KING, 



117 



Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 

And say thou wouldst rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
For I know that the angels are whispering to 
thee." 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
see; 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing, 

Said, "1 knew that the angels were whispering 

with thee." 

Samuel Lover. 



pi)ilip» tnij King. 

" Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my king ! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther, to corainand 
Till thou shalt find thy queen-liandmaiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kindly. 
Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 
For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, ray king ! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now. 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, 
Let me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king — 



A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my king ! 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glori- 
ous, 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
" Philip, the king ! " 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



^\\t Cliilb anb tl]c iDatcl)cr. 

Sleep on, baby on the floor, 

Tired of all thy playing — 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ; 
On your curls' fair roundness stand 

Golden lights serenely ; 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand, 

Folds the dimple inly — 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure ; 
t^nderneath the lids half-shut 

Plants the shining azure ; 
Open-souled in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber ; 
Nothing evil having done, 

Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well. 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sisrh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Xay, keep smiling, little child. 

Ere the fate appeareth ! 
I smile, too ; for patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

I shall sleep, though losing ! 
As by cradle, so by cross. 

Sweet is the reposing. 

And God knows, who sees us twain, 
Child at childisli leisure, 

I am all "as tired of pain 
As you are of pleasure. 



118 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Very soon, too, by His grace. 

Gently wrapt around me, 
I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly — 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping, 
While my hand must drop the few 

Given to my keeping — 

Differing in this, that I, 

Sleeping, must be colder, 
And. in waking presently, 

Brighter to beholder — 
Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Your great eyes toward me ?) 
That while I you draw withal 

From this slumber solely. 
Me, from mine,, an angel shall, 

Trumpet-tongued and holy ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Buowning. 



(TIk (5i}jsi}'s iltalison. 

"Suck, baby, suck I mother's love grows by giving ; 
Drain tiie sweet founts that only thrive by wast- 
ing : 
Black njanhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
Hands thee the cup that shall bo death in tast- 
ing. 

" Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother^s lips shine by kisses ; 

Choke the warm breath that else would fall in 
blessings : 
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses 

Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 

" Hang, baby> hang ! mother's love loves such 
forces ; 
Strain the fond nook that bends still to thy 
clinging : 
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
Leave thoc a spectacle in rude air swinging." 

So sang a withered Ijeldam energetical. 
And banned the ungiving door .with lips prophet- 
ical. 

Charles* Lamb. 



®l)e ail)ilb Asleep. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not t^ me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'Tis sweet to watch for thee — alone for thee ! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow. 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! — he but slept — I breathe again. 

Come! gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
Oh, when shall he, for whom 1 sigh in vain. 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 

Clotilde de Surville. (French.) 
Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 



to J. §. 

FOUR YEARS OLD : — A NURSERY SONG. 

. . . . Pien d'amori, 

Pien di canti, e pien di flori. Frugoni. 

Full of little loves of ours. 

Full of songs, and full of flowers. 

Ah, little ranting Johnny, 
For ever blithe and bonny. 
And singing nonny, nonny, 
With hat just thrown upon ye ; 
Or whistling like the thrushes, 
With a voice in silver gushes ; 
Or twisting random posies 
With daisies, weeds, and ro.ses; 
And strutting in and out so, 
Or dancing all about so ; 
With cock-up nose so lightsome. 
And sidelong eyes .so brightsome. 



TO J. H.—A NURSERY SONG. 



110 



And cheeks as ripe as apples, 

And head as rou2:h as Dapple's, 

And arms as sunny shining 

As if their A'eins they'd wine in, 

And mouth that smiles so truly 

Heaven seems to have made it newly — 

It breaks into such sweetness 

With merry-lipped completeness; 

Ah Jack, ah .Gianni mio, 

As blithe as Laughing Trio ! 

— Sir Richard, too, you rattler, 

So christened from the Tattler, 

My Bacchus in his glory, 

INJy little Cor-di-fiori, 

My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 

Who in and out come bobbing. 

As full of feints and frolics as 

That fibbing rogue Autolycus, 

And play the graceless robber on 

Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — 

Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, 

How can you, can you be so ? 

One cannot turn a minute. 

But mischief — there you're in it : 

A -getting at my books, John, 

With mighty bustling looks, John, 

Or poking at the roses. 

In midst of w^hich your nose is ; 

Or climbing on a table, 

No matter how unstable. 

And turning up your quaint eye 

And half -shut teeth, with " May n't I ? "' 

Or else you're off at play, John, 

Just as you'd be all day, John, 

With hat or not, as happens ; 

And there you dance, and clap hands. 

Or on the grass go rolling. 

Or plucking flowers, or bowling, 

And getting me expenses 

With losing balls o'er fences ; 

Or, as the constant trade is. 

Are fondled by the ladies 

With " What a young rogue this is ! " 

Reforming him with kisses; 

Till suddenly you cry out, 

As if you had an eye out, 

So desperately tearful. 

The sound is really fearful ; 



When lo ! directly after. 
It bubbles into laughter. 

Ah rogue ! and do you know, John, 

Why 'tis we love you so, John ? 

And how it is they let ye 

Do what you like and pet ye. 

Though all who look upon ye. 

Exclaim, " Ah, Johnny, Johnny ! " 

It is because you please 'em 

Still more, John, than you tease 'em ; 

Because, too, when not present, 

The thought of you is pleasant ; 

Because, though such an elf, John, 

They think that if yourself, John, 

Had something to condemn too. 

You'd be as kind to them too ; 

In short, because you're very 

Good-tempered, Jack, and merry; 

And are as quick at giving 

As easy at receiving ; 

And in the midst of pleasure 

Are certain to find leisure 

To think, my boy, of ours. 

And bring us lumps of flowers. 

But see, the sun shines brightly ; 
Come, put your hat on rightly. 
And we'll among the bushes, * 

And hear your friends, the thrushes; 
And see what flowers the weather 
Has rendered fit to gather ; 
And, when we home must Jog, you 
Shall ride my back, you rogue you, — 
Your hat adorned with fine leaves, 
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves, 
And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
Shall whistle home to bed, John. 

Leigh Hunt. 



EMBRACING HIS .MOTHER. 

LovE thy mother, little one I 

Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 

Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 

Love thy mother, little one ! 



120 POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 


1 

Gaze upon her living eyes, 


Who wishes all the while to trace 


And mirror back her love for thee, — 


The mother in his future face ; 


Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs 


But 'tis to her alone uprise 


To meet them when they cannot see. 


His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 


Gaze upon her living eyes ! 


Open with joy and not surprise. 




~ Walter Savage Laxdor. 


Press her lips the while they glow 




With love that they have often told, — 




Hereafter thou mayst press in woe. 




And kiss them till thine own are cold. 


Z\\c £i\\x\s^ Cliilb, 


Press her lips the while they glow ! 


m • T • 


The summer sun was smkmg 


Oh, revere her raven hair ! 


With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 


Although it be not silver-grav — 


It shone on ray little boy's bonny cheeks, 


Too early Death, led on by Care, 


And his loose locks of yellow. 


May snatch save one dear lock away. 


The robin was singing sweetly. 


Oh, revere her raven hair ! 


And his song was sad and tender ; 


Pray for her at eve and mom, 


And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the 


That Heaven may long the stroke defer ; 
For thou maj'st live the hour forlorn 


song 
Smiled with a sweet soft splendor. 


When thou wilt ask to die with her. 


My little boy lay on my bosom 


Pray for her at eve and morn ! 


While his soul the song was quaffing ; 


Thomas Hood. 


The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, 




And his heart and his eye were laughing. 


(2)n tlic picture of an iJnfant 


I sate alone in my cottage, 




The midnight needle plying : 


PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. 


I feared for my child, for the nish's light 


While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels. 


In the socket now was dying. 


And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, 




See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 


There came a hand to my lonely latch, 


Oh, fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — 


Like the wind at midnight moanhig ; 


Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, 


I knelt to pray, but rose again. 


And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 


For I heard my little boy gi'oaning. 


Leoxidas of Alexandria. (Greek.) 


I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast. 


Translation of Samuel Rogers, 






But that night my child departed — 




They left a weakling in his stead, 




And I am broken-hearted. 


Cliilbrcn. 






Oh I it cannot be my own sweet boy. 


Children are what the mothers are. 


For his eyes are dim and hollow ; 


No fondest father's fondest care 


My little boy is gone — is gone. 


Can fashion so the infant heart 


And his mother soon will follow ! 


As those creative beams that dart. 




With all their hopes and fears, upon 


The dirge foi the dead will be sung for me, 


The cradle of a sleeping son. 


And the mass be chanted meetly, 




And I shall sleep with my little boy, 


His startled eyes with wonder see 


In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 


A father near him on his knee, 


JoUN AXSTER, 



TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 



121 



®o a €l)iib, buring Sickness. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy. 
I sit me down, and think 

Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 

That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, 

Thy thanks to all that aid, 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness. 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears : 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
Have wasted with dry brow ; 
But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness — 
The tears are in their bed. 

Ah, first-born of thy mother. 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother. 
Thy sister, father too ; 

My light, where'er I go ; 
My bird, when prison-bound. 
My hand-in-hand companion — No, 
My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say " He has departed " — 

" His voice " — " his face " — is gone. 
To feel impatient-hearted. 

Yet feel we must bear on — 
Ah, I could not endure 

To whisper of such woe, 
Unless I felt this sleep ensure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping 1 
This silence too the while 7— 

Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile ; 



Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of cherubim. 

Who say, " We've finished here." 

Leigh Httnt. 



(Jo i^ft^tl^fi (Sloleribge. 

SIX YEARS OLD. 

THOU whose fancies from afar are brought ; 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-bom carol. 

Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream — 

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely w41d, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy 

guest. 
Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover, never rest 
But when she sat within the touch of thee. 
too industrious folly ! 
vain and causeless melancholy ! 
Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight. 
Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow, 
Or the injuries of to-morrow i 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the mom brings 

forth, 
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
A gem that glitters while it lives, 
And no forewarning gives, 
But, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife, 
Slips in a moment out of life. ■ 

"WUXIAM "WOUDSWORTU. 



r' 



122 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



(To a ari)ilb. 

Dear child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame. 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne. 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 
Delight and wonder come and go ; 
And eyes whose inward meanings play, 
Congenial with the light of day ; 
And brow so calm, a home for Thought 
Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 
Though wise indeed thou seemest not. 
Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 

That shout proclaims tlie undoubting mind ; 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee. 
Unforced, unthouglit of, simply free. 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

In spite of all foreboding fear, 
A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
And thus to be beloved and known, 
As is a rushv fountain's tone. 
As is the forest's leafy shade. 
Or blackbird's Jiidden serenade. 
Thou art a flash that lights the whole — 
A gush from Nature's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear child ! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives, 
That makes thee more than light or air. 
Than all things sweet and all things fair; 
And sweet and fair as auglit may be, 
Diviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aindess joys began 
The perfect heart and will of Man. 

Thus whjit thou art foreshows to me 
IIow greater far tliou soon shalt be ; 



And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go, 
Ever within, not loud but clear. 
Prophetic murmur fills the ear. 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 

John Sterling, 



Is there, when the winds are singing 

In the happy suminer time. 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With Earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp, and village chime, 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
As the laughter of a child f 

Listen ! and be now delighted : 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 
Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; 
Life and Light are reunited. 
Amid countless carollings ; 
Yet, delicious as they are, 
There's a sound that's sweeter far — 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all, — the human voice. 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer, 

Though it be a stranger's tone — 

Than the winds or waters dearer, 

More enchanting to the hearer, 
For it answereth to his own. 

But, of all its witching words, 

Sweeter than the songs of birds, 

Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 

Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers, 

Haunted strains from ri^•ulets, 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Bustling leaves, and silver showers, — 

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round — 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 



123 



Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 

Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 

Ear of one whose love is surer — 

Hers, the mother, tlie endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 

Hers to hoard, a life-time after, 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'Tis a mother's large affection 
Hears with a mysterious sense — 

Breathings that evade detection, 

Whisper faint, and fine inflexion. 
Thrill in her with power intense. 

Childhood's honeyed words untaught 

Hiveth she in loving thought — 

Tones that never thence depart ; 

For she listens — with her heart. 

Lajian Blanch ard. 



When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Xor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaA'en ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient to rebuke when Justly given — 

Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 

And meekly cheerful ; such wcrt thou, my child ! 

Xot willing to be left — still by my side. 
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dy- 

Xor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying ; 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. 

boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, 

Xo strenglh in all thy freshness, prone to fade. 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; 



Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love — bold in thy glee. 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy. 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
soundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 
And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
boundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile — the frequent soft caress — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found. 

But thought that love with thee had reached its 
bound. 

At length thou camest — thou, the last and least, 
Xick-named '• the Emperor " by thy laughing 
brothers — 
Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
others — 
^[ingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eve of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow. 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim 
I, that all other love had been forswearing. 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the sanu' : 
Nor injured either by this love's comparing, 

Xor stole rt fraction for the newer call — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 

Caroline Norton. 



124 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



i11otl)cr's Cone. 

He sang so wildly, did the boy, 

That you could never tell 

If 'twas a madman's voice you heard, 

Or if the spirit of a bird 

Within his heart did dwell — 

A bird that dallies with his voice 

Among the matted branches ; 

Or on the free blue air his note, 

To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float, 

With bolder utterance launches. 

None ever was so sweet as he. 

The boy that wildly sang to me : 

Though toilsome was the way and long, 

He led me, not to lose the song. 

But when again we stood below 

The unhidden sky, his feet 

Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 

But more than doubly sweet. 

He led me then a little way 

Athwart the barren moor, 

And there he stayed, and bad me stay, 

Beside a cottage door ; 

1 could have stayed of my own will. 

In truth, my eye and heart to fill 

With the sweet siglit which I saw there, 

At the dwelling of the cottager. 

A little xn the doorway sitting, 

The mother plied her busy knitting; 

And her cheek so softly smiled, 

Vou might be sure, although her gaze 

Was on the meshes of the lace. 

Yet her thoughts were with her child. 

But when the boy had heard her voice, 
As o'er her work she did rejoice, 
His became silent altogether ; 
And slyly creeping by the wall, 
He seized a single |)lumc. let fall 
By some wild bird of longest feather; 
And all a-tremble with his freak, 
He touched her lightly on tlie check. 

Oh what a loveliness her c}ts 
Gather in that one moment's si)ace, 
While peeping round the post she spies 
Her darling's laugiiing face ! 



Oh mother's love is glorifying. 
On the cheek like siuiset lying; 
In the eyes a moistened light, 
Softer than the moon at niuhl ! 



Thomas Burbidge. 



Z\)c Pet Camb. I 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 
I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, , 

drink ! " 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me J espied j 

A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at its , 

side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all i 
alone, j 

And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 

With one knee on the grass did the little maiden 
kneel, i 

While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening 
meal. 

1 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper | 

took, I 

Seemed to feast with head and cars ; and his tail , 

with pleasure shook. | 

" Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, in such j 
a tone 

That I almost received her heart into my own. 

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty 

rare ! 
I watched them with delight : they were a lovely 

pair. 
Now with her empty can the maiden turned 

away ; 
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she 

stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a 

shady place 
I unol)servcd could see the workings of her 

face. 
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers 

bring, 
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might 



THE PET LAMB. 



125 



" What ails thee, younii^ one? what? Why pull so 

at tliy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and 

board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
Rest, little young one, rest ; what is't that aileth 

thee ? 

" What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting 

to thy heart ? 
Tliy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful 

thou art. 
This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have 

no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 

" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy 

woollen chain — 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst 

gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms — the ^ like thou 

need'st not fear ; 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can 

come here. 

" Rest, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot the 

day 
When my father found thee first in places far 

away : 
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned 

by none, 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was 

gone. 

" He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 

home : 
A blessed day for thee! Then whither wouldst 

thou roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast— the dam that did thee 

yean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have 

been. 

" Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought 

thee in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as ck\ir as ever ran ; 
And twice in tlie day, when tlie ground is wet with 

dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk — warm milk it is, 

and new. 



"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they 

are now ; 
Then Til yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the 

plough. 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is 

cold. 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy 

fold. 

"It will not, will not rest! — Poor creature, can 

it be 
That 'tis thy mother's heait which is working so in 

thee? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are 

dear. 
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see 

nor hear. 

"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and 

fair I 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 

there ; 
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all 

play. 
When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. 

"Plere thou need'st not dread the raven in the 

sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is hard 

by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee 

again ! " 

— As homeward through the lane I went with lazy 

feet, 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by 

line. 
That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was 

mine. 

Again and once again, did I repeat the song; 

" Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel must 

belong, 
For she looked with such a look, and she spake 

with such a tone. 
That I almost received her heart into my own." 

WlLHAM WOUDSWORTH. 



126 



FOEJIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



CIk GlKpllcrb Bog. 

Like some vision olden 

Of far other time. 
When the age was golden. 

In the young world's prime, 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

lonely shepherd boy : 
What song art thou singing, 

In thy youth and joy ? 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot, 
And thine own disdaining, 

Dost ask what thou hast not ? 
Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past. 
For the present scheming — 

All but what thou hast. 

No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home ; 
Where the flowers inviting 

Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip, bending 

With its golden bells. 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime tells. 

All wild creatures love him 

When he is alone ; 
Every bird above him 

Sings its softest tone. 
Thankful to high Heaven, 

Humble in tliy joy, 
Much to thee is given, 

Lowly shepherd lx)y. 

L-ETiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 



(To mil Diutglitcr. 

Dear Fanny I nine long years ago. 
While yet the morning sun was low. 
And rosy with the eastern glow 

Tlie landscape smiled ; 
Wliilst lowed the newly-wakened herds 
Sweet as tlie early song of birds. 
I heard those first, deliglitful words, 

" Thou luist a child ! " 



Along with that uprising dew 

Tears glistened in my eyes, though few. 

To hail a dawning quite as new 

To me, as Time : 
It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
But like a happy maid, though coy, 
With grief -like welcome, even Joy 

Forestalls its prime. 

So may'st thou live, dear ! many years, 

In all the bliss that life endears. 

Not without smiles, nor yet from tears. 

Too strictly kept. 
When first thy infant littleness 
I folded in my fond caress. 
The greatest proof of happiness 

Was this — I wejit. 

Thomas Hood, 



Cittlc Boij Clue. 

When the corn-fields and meadows 
Are pearled with the dew, 

With the first sunny shadow 
Walks little Boy Blue. 

Oh the Nymphs and the Graces 

Still gleam on his eyes, 
And the kind fairy faces 

Look down from the skies ; 

And a secret revealing 

Of life within life, 
When feeling meets feeling 

In musical strife : 

A winding and weaving 

In flowers and in trees, 
A floating and heaving 

In sunlight and breeze ; 

A striving and soaring, 

A gladness and grace, 
Make him kneel half-adoring 

Tlie God in the place. 

Then amid the live shadows 

Of lambs at thoir play. 
Where the kijie scent the meadows 

With breath like the I\Iav, 



LITTLE RED . 


RIDING HOOD. 127 


IJc stands in the splendor 


A world whore Phantasie is king. 


That waits on the morn, 


Made all of eager dreaming ; 


And a music more tender 


When once grown up and tall — 


Distils from his horn ; 


Now is the time for scheming — 




Then we shall do them all ! 


And he weeps, he rejoices, 


Do such pleasant fancies spring 


He prays ; nor in vain, 


For Red Riding Hood, the darling. 


For soft loving voices 


The flower of fairy lore ? 


Will answer again ; 






She seems like an ideal love. 


And the Nymphs and the Graces 


The poetry of childhood shown, 


Still gleam through the dew. 


And yet loved with a real love, 


And kind fairy faces 


As if she were our own — 


Watch little Boy Blue. 


A younger sister for the heart ; 


Anontmous. 


Like the woodland pheasant, 




Her hair is brown and bright ; 




And her smile is pleasant. 


Cittle Icb liiMng ^ooh. 


With its rosy light. 

Never can the memory part 


Come back, come back together. 


With Red Riding Hood, the darling. 


All ye fancies of the past. 


The flower of fairy lore. 


Ye days of April weather. 




Ye shadows that are cast 


Did the painter, dreaming 


By the haunted hours before ! 


In a morning hour. 


Come back, come back, my Childhood ; 


Catch the fairy seeming 


Thou art summoned by a spell 


Of this fairy flower? 


From the green leaves of the wildwood. 


Winning it with eager eyes 


From beside the charmed well, 


From the old enchanted stories, 


For Red Riding Hood, the darling. 


Lingering with a long delight 


The flower of fairy lore ! 


On the unforgotten glories 




Of the infant sight i 


The fields were covered over 


Giving us a sweet surprise 


With colors as she w^ent ; 


In Red Riding Hood, the darling. 


Daisy, buttercup, and clover 


The flower of fairy lore ? 


Below her footsteps bent ; 




.Summer shed its shining store ; 


Too long in the meadow staying, 


She was happy as she pressed them 


Where the cowslip bends. 


Beneath her little feet ; 


With the buttercups delaying 


She plucked them and caressed them ; 


As with early friends, 


They were so very sweet, 


Did the little maiden stay. 


They had never seemed so sweet before. 


Sorrowful the tale for us ; 


To Red Riding Hood, the darling. 


We, too, loiter mid life's flowers. 


The flower of fairy lore. 


A little while so glorious. 




So soon lost in darker hours. 


How the heart of childhood dances 


All love lingering on their way, 


Upon a sunny dav ! 


Like Red Riding Plood, the darling, 


1 •/ * 

It has its own romances. 


The flower of fairy lore. 


And a wide, wide world have they ! 


L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 



128 



POUJIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



^l)e picb piper of iJamcUn. 



Hamelix Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
But when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 

Rats ! "• 

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats. 

By drowning their speaking 

With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

III. 
At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy ; 

And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up. Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we're lacking. 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! " 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

TV. 

An hour they sate in counsel — 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 

I wish 1 were a mile hence ! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 



Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap I " 

Just as he said this, what should hap 

At the chamber door but a gentle tap I 

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that?" 

(With the Corporation as he sat. 

Looking little though wondrous fat ; 

Xor brighter was his eye, nor moister 

Than a too-long-opened oyster. 

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 

For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous,) 

'• Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 



" Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 
And in did come the strangest figure : 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin ; 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin ; 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin ; 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 
But lips where smiles went out and in — 
There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one : " It's as my great-grandsire, 
Starting up at the trump of doom's tone. 
Had walked this way from his painted tomb- 
stone ! " 

VT. 

He advanced to the council-table : 
And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm able. 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm — 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper — 
And people call me the Pied Pif)er." 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe. 
To match with his coat of the self-same check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever stray- 
ing 
As if impatient to be playing 



THE PIED PIPER OF ILUIELIX. 



129 



LTpon this pipe, as low it dangled 

Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 

" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham, 

Last June, from liis huge swarm of gnats; 

I eased in Asia the Xizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 

And, as for what your brain bewilders — 

If I can rid your town of rats. 

Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " 

" One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

VII. 

Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept, 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled. 
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering gi'ew to a grumbling ; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- 
bling ; 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; 

Families by tens and dozens, 
Biothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Wcser 
Wherein all plunged and perished 
— Save one who, stout as Julius Ca?sar, 
Svram across and lived to carry 
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 
To Rat-land home liis commentary, 
Which was : " At the first shrill notes of the 

pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
Into a cider-press's gripe — 
II 



And a moving away of picklc-tub-l>oards, 

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupVjoards, 

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks. 

And breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 

And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 

Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice I 

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 

So munch on, crunch on. take your nuncheon. 

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 

All ready staved, like a great sun shone 

Glorious, scarce an inch before me. 

Just as methought it said. Come, bore me ! 

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 

VIII, 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 

" Go," cried the Mayor. '• and get long poles ! 

Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 

Consult with carpenters and builders. 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 

Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 

With a " First, if you please, my thousand guilders !" 

IX. 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ! 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havock 

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock : 

And half the money would replenish 

Their cellars biggest butt with Rhenish. 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 

"Beside." quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 

wink, 
" Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
And what's dead can't come to life. I think. 
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something for 

drink. 
And a matter of money to put in your poke; 
But. as for tlie guildei's, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke ; 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! '' 



130 POEMS OF 


CHILDHOOD. 


X. 


And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 


The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 


As the Piper turned from the High Street 


'• No trifling ! I can't wait I beside. 


To where the Weser rolled its waters 


I've promised to visit by dinner-time 


Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 


Bagdat. and accept the prime 


However, he turned from South to West, 


Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 


And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 


For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 


And after him the children pressed ; 


Of a nest of scorpions no surWvor — 


Great was the joy in every breast. 


"With him I proved no bargain-driver. 


" He never can cross that mighty top ! 


With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver I 


He's forced to let the piping drop. 


And folks who put me in a passion 


And we shall see our children stop ! " 


May find me pipe to another fashion." 


When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 




A wondrous portal opened wide, 


XI. 


As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 


" How ? " cried the flavor, " d'ye think I '11 brook 


And the Piper advanced and the children fol- 


Being worse treated than a cook ? 


lowed ; 


Insulted by a lazy ribald 


And when all were in. to the very last, 


With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 


The door in the moimtain-side shut fast. 


You threaten us, fellow f Do your worst, 


Did 1 say all ? Xo ! One was lame, 


Blow your pipe there till you bui'st ! " 


And could not dance the whole of the way ; 




And in after-years, if you would blame 


XII. 


His sadness, he was used to say, — 


Once more he stept into the street ; 


" It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 


1 And to his lips again 


I can't forget that I'm bereft 


Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 


Of all the pleasant sights they see, 


And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 


Which the Piper also promised me ; 


Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 


For he led us. he said, to a joyous land, 


Never gave the enraptured air) 


Joining the town and just at hand. 


There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 


Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, 


Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling ; 


And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 


Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. 


And even* thing was strange and new ; 


Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering. 


The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 


And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scat- 


And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 


tering. 


And honey-bees had lost their stings. 


Out came the children running: 


And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 


All the little boys and girls. 


And just as I became assured 


With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 


My lame foot woidd be sjjeedily cured. 


And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 


The music stopped and I stood still. 


Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 


And found myself outside the Hill, 


The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 


Left alone against my will. 




To go now limping as before. 


XIII. 


And never hear of that country more I" 


The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 




As if they were changed into blocks of wood. 


XIV. 


Tnable to move a step, or cr\' 


Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 


To the children merrily skipping by — 


There came into many a burgher's pate 


And could only follow with the eye 


A text which says, that Heaven's gate 


That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 


Opes to the rich at as easy rate 


But how the Mayor was on the rack, 


As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 



i 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



131 



The Mayor sent East, West, Xoi-th, and South, 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was men's lot to find liim, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went, 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And piper and dancers were gone for ever, 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as well appear, 
" And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen Hundred and Seventy-six : " 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children's last retreat 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the Great Church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away ; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago, in a mighty band. 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
But how or why, they don't understand. 

XV. 

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers ; 

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from 

mice. 
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our 

promise. 

Robert Browning. 



(Ta (George i\\ 



Yes, I do love thee well, my child ! 

Albeit mine's a wandering mind ; 
But never, darling, hast thou smiled 

Or breathed a wish that did not find 
A ready echo in my heart. 

What hours I've held thee on my knee, 
Thy little rosy lips apart ! 

Or, when asleep, I've gazed on thee. 
And with old tunes sung thee to rest. 

Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; 
For thee my very heart hath blest, 

My joy, my care, ray blue-eyed blossom ! 

Thomas Miller. 



^ bisit from Gt. ^'icl^olas. 

'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through 

the house 
Xot a creature' was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds. 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 

heads ; 
And jNIamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 

nap — 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the mat- 
ter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them 

by name ; 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer and 

Vixen ! 
On! Comet, on ! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen — 



132 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all I " 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the 

sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As 1 drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 

bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his 

foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 

soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how 

merry ; 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up. like a bow, 
And the beardr on hi^ cliin was as white as the 

snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 
And tlte smoke, it encii^cled his head like a 

wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little i*ound belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of 

jelly. 

He was chubby ami plump — a right jolly old elf; 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 

work. 
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a 

jerk. 
And laying his finger asrdc of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a 

whistle. 
And away they all flew like the down of a 

thistle ; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of 

sight, 
" Happy Cliristmas to all, and to all a good- 



night 



f" 



Clement C. Moore. 



^\)c ©nmbols of Cliilbren. 

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing, 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — 

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little \q\y. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter. 

How they glimmer, how they quiver ! 

Sparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit. 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 

George Darlet. 

Satui-bat] QVftci-noon. 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the woi-ld for fourscore years, 

And they say that I am old — 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 

And ray years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true — it is very true — 

I am old, and I " bide my time ; " 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on ! play on I I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring; 
I can feel the thrill of tlie daring jump. 

And tlie rush of the bivathless swing. 
1 hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smothered call, 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low ; 



THE SCH00L3nSTRESS. 



133 



But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



®l)e Cittlc bnigabcrnb. 

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold, 
But the ale-house is healthy, and pleasant, and warm : 
Besides, I can tell where I am used well, 
Such usage in heaven will never do well. 

But if at the church they would give us some ale, 
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, 
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day, 
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray. 

Then the parson might preach and drink and sing, 
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring ; 
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church. 
Would not have bandy children, nor hiding, nor 
birch ; 

And God, like a father rejoicing to see 

His children as pleasant and happy as he. 

Would have no more quarrel with the devil or the 

barrel, 
But kiss him, and give him both drink and ap- 
parel. William Blake. 



®l)e Scljoolmistrcss. 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn. 

To think how modest worth neglected lies, 
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 

Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; 

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise. 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 

To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies, 
Such as 1 oft have ehaunced to espy, 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village marked with little spire, 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to Fame, 

There dwells, in lowly shed and moan attire, 
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name. 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 



They grievcn sore, in piteous durance pent. 

Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely 
shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 

Which Learning near her little dome did stow. 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 

Though now so wide its waving branches flow, 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat 
low ; 
And as they looked, they found their horror 

grew. 
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 
view. 

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 

A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; 
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave. 

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look 
aghast ; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 
No superstition clog his dance of joy. 
No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green. 

On which the tribe their gambols do display ; 
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen. 

Lest weakly wiglits of smaller size should stray. 

Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermixed, which thence resound. 

Do Learning's little tenement betray ; 
Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 

Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe. 

As is the hare-bell that adorns the field; 

And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwined, 

Witli dark distrust, and sad rej)ontanee fdled. 
And stedfast hate, and sharp afllirtion joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 



184 



POEMS OF cm LI) HOOD. 



Few but have keuuLHl. in semblance meet portrayed, 
The cliildisli faces of old Eol'.s train : 

Libs. Notus. An>ter: these in frowns arrayed. 
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main, 
Were the stern j»:od to y:ive his slaves the rein ? 

And were not she rebellious bi'casts to quell. 
And were not she her statutes to maintain. 

The cot no more, I ween, were deemed the cell. 

Where comely peace of mind and decent order 
dwell. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 
'Twas simple rnsset, but it was her own ; 

'Twas her own country bivd the flock so fair; 

'Twas her own labor did the fieece prepare; 
And. sooth to say, her pupils, raui^ed around. 

Through picnis awe did term it passing rare ; 
For they in gaping wonderment abound. 
And think, no doubt, she l)een the greatest wight 
on ground I 

Albeit ne flattery did c<irrupt her truth, 

Xe pompous title diil ilebaudi her ear; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held riirht 
dear ; 
Xe would esteem him act as mought behove. 

Who should not honored eld with these revere; 
For never title yet so mean could i)rove. 
Hut there was eke a mind which did that title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed. 

The plodding pattern of the busy dame; 
Which, ever and an<m. impelled by need. 

Into her school, begin with chickens, came ! 

Such favoi- did her past deportment claim ; 
And if Xeglect Iiad lavished on the ground 

Fragment of ])read, she would collect the same; 
For well she knew, and (juaintly could ex[)ound. 
What sin it wei-e to wjiste the smallest crumb she 
found. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, 
That in her garden sipjted the silvery dew. 

Where no vain flower disclosecl a gaudy streak; 
But herbs for usi' ami physic not a few. 
Of grey renown, within these holders i!;rew ; 



The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 

Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue, 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climl); 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to 
rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around; 
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue; 

And plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper's 
wound ; 

Anil marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found ; 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 

Sliall be erewhile in aiid bundles bound. 
To lurk amid the labors of her loom. 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare 
perfume. 

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crowned 

The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, 
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 

A Sficred shelter for its branches here ; 

Where edged with gold its glittei'ing skirts 
appear. 
Oh wassel days ! customs meet and well ! 

Ere this was banished from its lofty sphere ! 
Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
Xor ever would she more with thane and lordling 
dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve. 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did 
mete. 
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, 

But in her garden found a summer-seat ; 

Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat 
How Israel's sons, beneath a foi-eign king, 

While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
All for the nonce untuning every string, 
F[>hung their useless lyres — small heart had they 
to sing. 

For slie was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
And passed much time in truly virtuous deed; 

And in those elfin ears would oft deplore 

The times when truth by Popish lage did bleed, 
.Vnd tortuous death was true devotion's meed. 

And simi)le Faith in ii'on chains did mourn. 
That nould on wooden image place her creed; 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 



135 



And lawny saints in smouldering flames did biii'n ; 
Ah, dearest Lord, fore fend thilk days should e'er 
return I 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sliarp tooth of cankering ekl defaced, 

lii which, when he receives his diadem, 

Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed, 
The inatroa sate, and some with rank she 
graced, 

(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride I) 
Iledi'essed affronts, for vile affronts there 
passed ; 

And v/arned them not the fretful to deride, 

But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

Ilight well she knew each temper to descry; 

To thvv'art the proud, and the submiss to raise ; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high. 

And some entice with pittance small of praise; 

And other some with baleful sprig she fi-ays ; 
E'en absent, she the reins of [jower doth hold, 

^\liile with qiuiint arts the giddy crowd she 
sways ; 
Forewarned if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear and all the scene un- 
fold. 

Lo ! now with stale she utters the command ; 

Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; 
Their books of stature small they take in hand. 

Which with pellucid horn secured are, 

To save from fingers wet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 

St. George's high achievements doth declare; 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been. 
Kens the forthcoming rod — unplcasing sight I 
ween ! 

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star! it irks me while I write; 

As erst the bard by MuUa's silver stream. 
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight, 
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. 

For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues, the stri[)ling's late de- 
light ! 

And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. 

Fair as the furrv coat of whitest ei-milin. 



ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure, 

His little sister doth his peril see ; 
All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; 

She meditates a prayer to set him free ; 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 

(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief, which swells in either eye. 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 

No longer can she now her shrieks commantl. 

And hardly she forbeai'S, through awful fear. 
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand 

To stay harsh justice in his mid-career. 

On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow I) 

She sees no kind domestic visage near ; 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow. 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah ! what pen his piteous i)light may trace? 

Or what device his loud laments explain i 
The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain I 

The plenteous shower that does his cheek dis- 
tal n ? 
Wlien he in abject wise implores the dame, 

Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her. aim. 
And through the thatch his cries each falling 
stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay. 

Attend, and con their tasks with micklc care; 

By tui-ns, astonied every twig survey, 

And from their fellow's hateful wounds beware. 
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share, 

Till fear has taught them a performance meet. 
And to the well-known chest the dame lepair. 

Whence oft with sugared cates she doth them 
greet, 

And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, doubly 
sweet. 

See to their ssiits they hie with merry glee. 

And in beseemly order sitten there; 
All but the wight of bum y-galled ; he 

Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and 
chair. 



136 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



(This hand in mouth y-fixed, that rends his 
hair ;) 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, 

Convulsions intermitting, doth declare 
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest ; 
And scorns her offered love, and shuns to be ca- 
ressed. 

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, 

His blooming face that seems a purple flower. 
Which low to earth its drooping head declines, 

All smeared and sullied by a vernal shower. 

Oh the hard bosoms of despotic power ! 
All, all but she, the author of his shame. 

All, all but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall 

claim, 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and 
fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought, 

Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines ; 
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, 

But to the wind all merriment resigns ; 

And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent. 

Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; 
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, 
The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past 
resent. 

Ah me I how much 1 fear lest pride it be I 

But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see. 

Ye quench not too the sparks of noble fires. 

Ah ! better far than all the Muses' lyres, 
All coward arts, is valor's generous heat ; 

The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires. 
Like Yernon's patriot soul ! more justly great 
Than craft that pimps for ill or flowery false 
deceit. 

Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! 

E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here, 

And there a chancellor in embryo, 

Or l)ard sul)liine, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Milton. Shakespoaro. names tliat ne'er shall die I 

Tliough now he crawl along the ground so low, 



Xor weeting how^ the Muse should soar on high, 
Wisheth, poor starveling elf ! his paper kite mav 

fly- 

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, 

Low lays the house which that of cards doth 
build. 
Shall Dennis be ! if rigid Fate incline. 

And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 

And many a poet quit th' Aonian field, 
And, soured by age, profound he shall appear, 

As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrilled 
Surveys mine work ; and levels many a sneer, 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What 
stuff is here i " 

And now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, 
And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; 

And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 

And now the grassy cirque had covered o'er 
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 

A thousand ways in wanton rings they run ; 
Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I im- 
plore ! 

For well may freedom erst so dearly won. 

Appear to British elf more gladsome than the 
sun. 

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers, 

For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; 
For never may ye taste more careless hours 
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. 

Oh vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 

But most in courts where proud Ambition 
towers ; 

Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring 

Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 

See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 

These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on tlie green, with jocund leer 

Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 

Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 

With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to 
play ; 
Thilk to the hunter's savory cottage tend. 
In ])astry kings and (pieens th' allotted mite to 
spend. 



ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 



137 



Here as each season yields a different store, 
Each season's stores in order ranged been ; 

Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, 

Galling full sore th' unmoneyed wight, are seen : 
And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; 

And here of lovely dye, the Catharine pear, 
Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 

may no wight e'er pennyless come there, 

Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless 
care! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 

With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd. 
Scattering like blooming maid their glances round. 

With pampered look draw little eyes aside ; 

And must be bought, though penury betide. 
The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, 

And here each season do those cakes abide 
Whose honored names th' inventive city own, 
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises 
known. 

Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 

Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 
wave. 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, 

Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave ; 

Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his 
grave, 
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ! 

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave. 

Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray. 

Till Reason's mom arise, and light them on their 

way. 

William Shenstone. 



(Du a ^Distant Prospect of (!Eton (dollcgc. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade; 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver winding way : 



Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain I — 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A I'nomentary bliss bestow. 

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on urgent business bent, 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty ; 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign. 

And unknown regions dare descry ; 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind. 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ! 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Yet see, how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 



138 



POEJIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



And black misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 

These shall the fury passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind. 
Disdainful anger, pallid fear. 

And shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining love shall waste their youth, 
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And envy wan, and faded care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless despair, 

And sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning infamy ; 
The stings of falsehood those shall try. 
And hard unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tears it forced to flow ; 
And keen remorse, with blood defiled. 
And moody madness, laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of death. 

More hideous than their queen ; 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
Lo ! poverty, to fill the l)and, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men. 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies ^ 

Thought would destroy their paradise. 

No more: — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to ])e wise ! 

Thomas Gray. 



®l)c diilbrcn in tl)c lDoo5. 

Now ponder well, .you parents dear, 

The words which I shall write ; 
A doleful story you shall hear. 

In time brought forth to light : 
A gentleman of good account, 

In Norfolk lived of late, 
Whose wealth and riches did surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was, and like to die. 

No help then he could haA'e ; 
His wife by him as sick did lie, 

And both possessed one grave. 
No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 
In love they lived, in love they died. 

And left two babes behind : 

The one a fine and pretty boy. 

Not passing three years old ; 
The other a girl, more young than he, 

And made in beauty's mould. 
The father left his little son. 

As plainly doth appear, 
When he to perfect age should come. 

Three hundred pounds a year — 

And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 
To be paid down on marriage-day, 

Whicli might not be controlled ; 
But if the children chanced to die 

Ere they to age should come, 
Their uncle should possess their wealth, 

For so the will did run. 

"Now, brother," said the dying man, 

" Look to my children dear ; 
Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friends else I have here ; 
To God and you I do commend 

My children, night and day; 
But little while, be sure, we luive. 

Within this world to stay. 

" You must be father and mother both. 

And uncle, all in one : 
God knows what will become of them 

When I am dead and gone." 



THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 139 


With that bespake their mother dear, 


So that the pretty speech they had, 


" brother kind," quoth she, 


Made Murder's heart relent ; 


" You are the man must bring our babes 


And they that undertook the deed 


To wealth or misery. 


Full sore they did repent. 




Yet one of them, more hard of heart, 


" And if you keep them carefully, 


Did vow to do his charge, 


Then God will you reward ; 


Because the wretch that hired liim 


If otherwise you seem to deal. 


Had paid him very large. 


God will your deeds regard." 




With lips as cold as any stone. 


The other would not agree thereto, 


She kissed her children small : 


So here they fell at strife ; 


" God bless you both, my children dear," 


With one another they did fight, 


With that the tears did fall. 


About the children's life ; 




And he that was of mildest mood, 


These speeches then their brother spake 


Did slay the other there, 


To this sick couple there : 


Within an unfrequented wood ; 


" The keeping of your children dear, 


While babes did quake for fear. 


Sweet sister, do not fear ; 




God never prosper me nor mine. 


He took the children by the hand, 


Kor aught else that I have, 


When tears stood in their eye, 


If I do wrong your children dear, 


And bade them come and go with him. 


When you are laid in grave." 


And look thev did not crv ; 


• 


And two long miles he led them on, • 


Their parents being dead and gone, 


While they for food complain : 


The children home he takes, 


" Stay here," quoth he, " I'll bring you bread. 


And brings them home unto his house, 


When I do come again." 


And much of them he makes. 




lie had not kept these pretty babes 


These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 


A twelvemonth and a day. 


Went wandering up and down, 


But, for their wealth, he did devise 


But never more they saw the man. 


To make them both away. 


Approaching from the town. 




Their pretty lips, with black-berries, 


lie bargained with two ruffians strong, 


Were all besmeared and dyed. 


Which were of furious mood, 


And, when they saw the darksome night, 


That they should take these children young. 


They sate them down and cried. 


And slay them in a wood. 




He told his wife, and all he had, 


Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 


He did the children send 


Till death did end their grief ; 


To be brought up in fair London, 


In one another's arms they died, 


With one that was his friend. 


As babes wanting relief. 




No burial these pretty babes 


Away then went these pretty babes, 


Of any man receives, 


Rejoicing at that tide, 


Till robin redbreast, painfully, 


Rejoicing witli a merry mind. 


Did cover them with leaves. 


They should on cock-horse ride ; 




They prate and prattle pleasantly, 


And now the lieavy wrath of God 


As they rode on the way, 


Upon their uncle fell ; 


To those tliat sliould tlioir butchers be, 


Yea, fearfid fiends did haunt liis house, 


And work their lives' decay. 


His conscience felt an hell. 



140 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



His barns were fired, his goods consumed, 

His lands were barren made ; 
His cattle died within the field, 

And nothing with him stayed. 

And, in the voyage of Portugal, 

Two of his sons did die ; 
And, to conclude, himself was brought 

To extreme misery. 
He pawned and mortgaged all his land 

Ere seven years came about ; 
And now, at length this wicked act 
Did by this means come out : 

The fellow that did take in hand 

These children for to kill, 
Was for a robber judged to die, 

As was God's blessed will ; 
Who did confess the very truth, 

The which is here expressed ; 
Their uncle died while he, for debt, 

In prison long did rest. 

You that executors be made, 

And overseers eke ; 
Of children that be fatherless. 

And infants mild and meek, 
Take you example by this thing, 

And yield to each his right. 
Lest God, witli such like misery, 

Your wicked minds requite. 

Anonymous. 



Cabn ^nn Dotl)U)cirs Camcnt. 

Balow, my bal)e, ly stil and sleipe ! 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad, 
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 
Bal}/(v, my boy, thy milher's joy ! 
'jPhy father l)reides me great ainioy. 

BaIoa\ my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Wlien he l)egan to court my hive. 
And with his sugrod words to muve, 
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire. 
To me that time did not appeire : 



But now 1 see. most cruell hee. 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Ly stil, ray darlinge. sleipe awhile, 
And when thou wakest sweitly smile ; 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire. 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I can nae chuse, but ever will 
Be hiving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae. whair-eir he ryde. 
My hive with him maun stil abyde : 
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ! 

But doe not, doe not. prettie mine. 

To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 

Be loyal to thy luver trew. 

And nevir change hir for a new ; 

If glide or faire, of hir liave care. 

For women's banning's wonderous sair. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane. 

Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine ; 

My babe and I'll together live. 

He'll comfort me wlien cares doe grieve ; 

My babe and I right saft will ly. 

And quite forget man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth 
Tliat ever kist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maids be warned by mee, 
Xevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
For if we doe but chance to bow. 
They'll use us than they care not how. 

Balow. my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Anonymous. 



HER EYES ARE WILD. 



I4l 



Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping, 

Wailed the winds and waters wild, 
Her young cheeks all wan with weeping, 

Danae clasped her sleeping child ; 
And " Alas," cried she, ** my dearest, 

What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine I 
But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest, 

In that sinless rest of thine. 
Faint the moonbeams break above thee, 

And. within here, all is gloom ; 
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee. 

Little reck'st thou of our doom. 
Xot the rude spray round thee flying. 

Has e'en damped thy clustering hair, — 
On thy purple mantlet lying, 

mine Innocent, my Fair ! 
Yet, to thee were sorrow sorrow, 

Thou would'st lend thy little ear. 
And this heart of thine might borrow 

Haply yet a moment's cheer. 
But no ; slumber on, Babe, slumber ; 

Slumber, Ocean-waves ; and you, 
My dark troubles, without number, — 

Oh. that ye would slumber too ! 
Though with wrongs they've brimmed my chalice, 

Grant, Jove. that, in future years, 
This boy may defeat their malice, • 

And avenge his mother's tears ! " 

SiMONiDES. (Greek.) 
Translation of William Peter. 



Ah, then how sweetlv closed those crowded 

days ! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays, 

That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh I what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbei"s 

Those wear)', happy days did leave ? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washington Allston. 



^cr Q^rics arc *I3ilb. 

* 

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare. 
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; 
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 
And she came far from over the main. 
She had a baby on her arm. 

Or else she were alone ; 
And underneath the hay-stack warm, 

And on the greenwood stone. 
She talked and sung the woods among. 
And it was in the English tongue. 

" Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad, 
But nay, my heart is far too glad : 
And I am happy when I sing 
Full many a sad and doleful thing. 
Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 

I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
But safe as in a cradle, here. 

My lovely baby I thou shalt be. 
To thee I know too much I owe ; 
I cannot work thee any woe. 

" A fire was once within my brain, 
And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, three. 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. 
But then there came a sight of joy ; 

It came at once to do me good ; 
I waked, and saw my little boy. 

My little boy of fiesh and blood ; 
Oh joy for me that sight to see I 
For he was here, and only he. 

" Suck, little babe, oh suck again I 
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
Thy lips, I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 
Oh press me with thy little hand I 

It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 

I feel thy little fingei-s prest. 
The breeze I see is in the tree — 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 

" Oh love me, love me, little Ix^y 1 
Thou ail thy mother's only joy ; 
And do not dread tlie waves below, 
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 



142 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



The high crag cannot work me harm, 
Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 

The babe I carry on my arm, 

He saves for me my precious soul ; 

Then happy lie ; for blest am I ; 

Without me my sweet babe would die. 

" Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
Bold as a lion will I be ; 
And 1 will always be thy guide, 
Through hollow snows and rivers wide, 
ril build an Indian bower ; I know 

The leaves that make the softest bed ; 
And. if from me thou wilt not go, 

But still be true till I am dead, 
My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
As merry as the birds in Spring. 

" Thy father cares not for my breast, 
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 
'Tis all thine own ! — and if its hue 
Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 

My beauty, little child, is flown. 
But thou wilt live with me in love : 

And what if my poor cheek be brown •? 
'Tis well for me thou canst not see 
How pale and wan it else would be. 

" Dread not their taunts, my little Life ; 

1 am thy father's wedded wife : 

And underneath the spreading tree 

We two will live in honesty. 

If his sweet boy he could forsake, 

With me he never would have stayed. 
From him no harm my babe can take ; 

But he, poor man, is wretched made ; 
And every day we two will pray 
For him that's gone and far away. 

" I'll teach my boy the sweetest things : 

I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips arc still. 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 

— Where art thou gone, my own dear child! 

What wicked looks are those I see ? 
Alas! alas! that look so wild. 

It never, never came from me. 
If thou art mad. my pretty lad, 
Then I must be for e\'er sad. 



" Oh smile on me, my little lamb ! 
For I thy own dear mother am. 
Mv love for thee has well been tried ; 
I've sought thy father far and wide. 
I know the poisons of the shade ; 

I know the earth-nuts fit for food. 
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 

We'll find thy father in the wood. 
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods awayi 
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 

William Wordswokth. 



(^l)c ^boptcb Cliilb. 

"Why would'st thou leave me, gentle child? 
Thy home on the mountain is l)leak and wild — 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; 
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer's 

day ; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb. 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell ; 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well : 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps M-hich the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe lialf slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest ; 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her soncr at the cabin door. 



>* 



LUCY GRAY. 



143 



Come thou with me to tlie vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away? — 
But 1 know that ray brothers are there at play — 
1 know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go.'' 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now ; 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green 

side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tied. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill? — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

Felicia Dorothea Hesiaks. 



Cuc2 C?5raw. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 

And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see, at break of day, 

The solitary child. 

Xo mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 

She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 

Beside a human door. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 

But tlie sweet face of Lucy Gray 
"Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night, — 
You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 



" That, Father, will I gladly do ; 

'Tis scarcely afternoon, — 
The minster-clock has just struck two. 

And yonder is the moon." 

At this the father raised his hook. 

And snapped a fagot-band. 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 

The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe — 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time ; 

She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb. 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 

To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept, — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " — 

When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downward from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked tlie footmarks small ; 

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
And by the low stone-wall ; 

And then an open field they crossed — 
The marks were still the same — 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 

Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the })lank ; 

And further there were none ! 



144 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



— Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child : 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 

And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 



3 Uemcmbcr, 2 Bcmcmbcr. 

I REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, 1 often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 

1 remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 

The tree is li\ing yet ! 

1 remember, I remember 

Where 1 was used to swing. 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pool could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, 1 remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I wjis a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



Z\)t Cl)ilbrcn's i^our. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the children's hour. 

1 hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall. 
By three doors left unguarded. 

They enter my castle wall. 

They climb up into my turret. 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses. 
Their arms about me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall. 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress. 

And will not let you depart. 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadswoutii Longfellow. 



wu ahe seven. 



145 



Hnbcr mi} toinbotu. 

Under my window, under my window, 

All in the Midsummer weather, 
Three little girls with fluttering curls 

Flit to and fro together : — 
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 

And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 

Leaning stealthily over, 
Merry and clear, the voice I hear, 

Of each glad-hearted rover. 
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies. 

As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window, 
In the blue Midsummer weather, 

Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe, 
I catch them all together : 

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kate with the scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 
And off through the orchard closes ; 

While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, 
They scamper and drop their posies ; 

But dear little Kate takes naught amiss. 

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, 
And I give her all my roses. 

Thomas Westwood. 



toe arc ScDcn. 



A SIMPLE child. 



That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in every limb, 
"What should it know of death f 

I met a little cottage girl : 

She was eight years old, she said. 
Tier hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustered round her head. 
12 



She had a rustic, woodland air. 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 

Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 

She answered : " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 

And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 

My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the churchyard cottage, I 

Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell. 

And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 

Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply : 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little maid ; 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 

Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied ; 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 

And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir, 

When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 

And eat my sup[)er there. 



146 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



" The first that died Avas sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till Grod released her of her pain ; 

And then she went awaj^. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 

And. when the grass was dry, 
Together round her gi'ave we played, 

My brother John and 1. 

" And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go. 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 

*' If they two arc in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little maid's reply : 

" Master, we are seven." 

" But they are dead : those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 
'Twas throwing words away ; for stiU 
The little maid would have her will, 

And said : " Nay, we are seven ! " 

William Wordsworth. 



^nnie in tl)c (5rat3Ciiarb. 

Sue Ijounded o'er the graves. 

With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
She bounded o'er the graves. 
Where the weeping willow waves, 

Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside. 

And her eyes were glittering bright ; 
Her hair was blown aside. 
And her little hands spread wide, 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 

That registers the dead ; 
Slie si)elt the lettered word. 
And lier busy thoughts were stirred 

Witli pleasure as she read. 



She stopped and culled a leaf 

Left fluttering on a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet monument of grief. 

That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'Twas near her sister's mound : 

She culled it with a smile. 

And played with it awhile, 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart, 

Xor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart. 
Oh, bitter drops will start 

Full soon in coming years. 

Caroline Oilman, 



Ballab of tlie (2^cm|jcst. 

We were crowded in the cabin. 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters, 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in Winter 

To be sliattcrcd by the blast, 
And to hear the rattling trumpet 

Thunder : " Cut away the mast ! " 

So we shuddered there in silence. 
For the stoutest held his breath. 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness. 
Each one busy in his prayers, 

" We are lost ! " tlie captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered. 

As she took his icy hand : 
" Is n't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land ? " 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

James T. Fields. 



LITTLE BELL. 



147 



Cittlc l3cU. 

He praj'eth \vell who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

The Ancient Mariner. 

Piped the blackbird on the beech wood spray : 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name ? " quoth he — 
"What's your name? Oh stop and straight un- 
fold, ' 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — 

" Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird — 

Pull of quips and wiles, 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. 
All for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaf)ed, and frolicked, void of fear, — 
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — 

" Little Bell," piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — 

Bring mc nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away the f ri.sky squirrel hies — 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — 

And adown the tree, 



Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun. 
In the little lap dropped one by one — 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 
" Happy Bell," pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare — 
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share — 

Ah the merry three ! 
And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot. at close of day. 

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray — 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear — 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 
" That, with happy heart, beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly ? " 
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 

" Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts be- 
hind, 

Little Bell, for thee ! " 

TnoMAS West WOOD. 



Z\]c tittle Black Dotj. 

My mother bore me in the southern wild. 
And I am black ; but, oh, my soul is white ! 

White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 



148 



FOEJIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 

And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap. and kissed me. 



And. 



pointing to the east, began to say: 



'• Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away ; 

And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

" And we are put on earth a little space. 

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For when our souls have learned the heat to bear. 
The clouds will vanish ; we shall hear his voice. 

Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say. and kissed me, 
And thus 1 say to little English boy: 

When I from black, and he from white cloud free. 
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 

ril shatle him from the heat, till he can bear 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; 

And tlien Til stand and stroke his silver hair. 
And be like him, and he will then love me. 

WiLUAM Blake. 



CX Cliilb Pratiing. 

Fold thy little hands in prayer. 

Bow down at thy mother's knee, 
Now thy siinny face is fair, 
Sliiiiing through thine auburn hair; 

Thine eyes are passion-free ; 
And i)leasant thoughts, like garlands, bind thee 
Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

Now thy young heart, like a bird, 

Warljles in its summer nest ; 
No evil thought, no unkind word, 
No chilling autumn winds have stirred 

The beauty of thy rest ; 
But winter hastens, and decay 
Shall waste thy verdant home away — 
Then pray, cliild. i)ray ! 



Thy bosom is a house of glee, 

"With gladness harping at the door ; 
While ever, with a joyous shout, 
Hope, the May queen, dances out. 

Her lips with music running o'er ; 
But Time those strings of joy will sever, 
And hope will not dance on for ever — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

Now, thy mother's arm is spread 
Beneath thy pillow in the night ; 

And loving feet creep round thy bed, 

And o'er thy quiet face is shed 
The taper's darkened light ; 

But that fond arm will pass away, 

By thee no more those feet will stay — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

ROBEKT ArIS WiLLMOTT. 



Curii. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise. 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 

The difference to me ! 



Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said : " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

" jMyself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 



149 



" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 

Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
WTiile she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Xature spake. — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run I 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 

William Words wokth. 



®n tlic Dentil of an infant. 

A HOST of angels flying, 

Through cloudless skies impelled, 

L'^pon the earth beheld 
A pearl of beauty lying. 

Worthy to glitter bright 

In heaven's vast hall of light. 

They saw, with glances tender. 
An infant newly born. 
O'er whom life's earliest morn 

Just cast its opening splendor ; 



Virtue it could not know, 
Xor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 

The blest angelic legion, 

Greeted its birth above. 

And came, with looks of love. 
From heaven's enchanting region ; 

Bending their winged way 

To where the infant lay. 

They spread their pinions o'er it, — 

That little pearl which shone 

With lustre all its own, — 
And then on high they bore it. 

Where glory has its birth ; — 

But left the shell on earth. 

Dirk Smits. (.Dutch.) 
Translation of H. S. Vax Dtk. 



(ri]c (^^aw toinbou). 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade. 
And on the gravelled path-rt-ay 

The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air. 
But the faces of the children. 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 

Was standing by the door ; 
He looked for his little playmates, 

Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens. 
They played not in the hall : 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet familiar tone : 
But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me. 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah I closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand I 

Hexrv Wadsworth Longfellow. 



I 150 



P0E3IS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Cabii's Stiocs. 



Oh those little, those little blue shoes ! 
Those shoes that no little feet use. 

Oh the price were high 

That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That by God's good will, 

Years since, grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby slept. 

So hushed, how the mother has kept. 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure, 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look .up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 

A little sweet face 

That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would mther part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use. 
And whose sight makes sucli fond tears start ! 

William Cox Bennett. 



Glic (£a\\{c nnb tDcnt. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent. 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and wont. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content. 

So my soul held that moment's heavt-n ;- 
I only know she came and wont. 



As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 
The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And when the oil is nearly spent, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 

JA3IES Russell Loavell. 



^I)c inorning-(!3l0i'ti. 

We wreathed about our darling's head 

The morning-glory bright ; 
Her little face looked out beneath, 

So full of life and light. 
So lit as with a sunrise, 

That we could only say, 
" She is the morning-glory true, 

And her poor types are they." 

So always from that happy time 

We called her by their name. 
And very fitting did it seem — 

For, sure as morning came. 
Behind her cradle bars she smiled 

To catch the first faint ray. 
As from the trellis smiles the flower 

And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 

Their airy cups of blue, 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew : 
And not so close their tendrils fine 

Round their supports are thrown. 
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come, 

VjXow as comes the flower. 
The last and perfect added gift 

To crown Love's morning hour; 



I 



AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. 



151 



And how in her was imaged forth 

The love we could not say, 
As on the little dewdrops round 

Shines back the heart of day. 

We never could have thought, God, 

That she must wither up. 
Almost before a day was flown, 

Like the morning-glory's cup ; 
We never thought to see her droop 

Her fair and noble head, 
Till she lay stretched before our eyes, 

Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 

The morning-glory's blossoming 

Will soon be coming round — 
We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves 

Upspringing from the ground ; 
The tender things the winter killed 

Renew again their birth, 
But the glory of our morning 

Has passed away from earth. 

Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 

Stretch over thy green plain ! 
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 

Her spirit to sustain ; 
But up in groves of Paradise 

Full surely we shall see 
Our morning-glory beautiful 

Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 

Maria White Lowell. 



^mong tl)e Beautiful pictures. 

Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on ^Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all. 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And stealing their golden edge ; 



Not for the vines on the u})land. 
Where the bright red berries rest ; 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 
It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep ; 
Light as the dowm of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And one of the autumn eves 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace. 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face ; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree -tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall. 

The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 

Alice Cahy. 



®l)e QTlirec Sous. 

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mir.d of 

gentle mould. 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways 

appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond 

his childish yeai*s. 
I cannot say how this may be ; I know liis fac e is 

fair — 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet aiid 

serious air ; 
I know liis heart is kind and fond : I know he 

iovoth me : 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fer- 
vency. 



152 



P0E2IS OF CHILDHOOD. 



But that which others most admire, is the thought 

which fills his mind, 
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere 

doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we to- 
gether walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as 

children talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on 

bat or ball. 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly 

mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- 

plext 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and 

thoughts about the next. 
He kneels at liis dear mother's knee ; she teacheth 

him to pray ; 
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the 

words which he will say. 
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's 

years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; 
And when 1 look into his eyes, and stroke his 

thoughtful brow, 
1 dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose 

him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little feat- 
ures be, 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prat- 
tles on my knee ; 

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his broth- 
er's, keen, 

Nor his brow so full of childish tliought as his 
hath ever been ; 

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and 
tender feeling ; 

And his every look's a gleam of light, ricli depths 
of love revealing. 

When he walks with me, the country folk, who 
pass us in the street, 

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so 
mild and sweet. 

A j)laylellovv is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful 
tone, 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport 
alone. 



His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home 

and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our 

mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 

heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 

earthly love ; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes 

must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we shall 

lose in him. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot 

tell. 
For they reckon not by years and months where he 

is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles 

were given ; 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to 

live in Heaven. 
1 cannot tell what form is his, what looks he wear- 

eth now, 
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining 

seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss 

which he doth foci. 
Are numbered with the secret things which God 

will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is 

now at rest. 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's 

loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of 

flesh. 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy 

for ever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath their 

glittering wings, 
And soothe him witli a song that breathes of 

Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother 

dear and I,) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from 

every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can 

never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 

certain peace. 



THRENODY. 



153 



It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from 

bliss may sever ; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours 

for ever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and what 

we still must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and 

this world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel 

this grief and pain — 
Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him 

here again. John Moultkie. 



The South-wind brings 

Life, sunshine, and desire. 

And on every mount and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire ; 

But over the dead he has no power ; 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; 

And, looking over the hills, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house ; 

I see my trees repair their boughs ; 

And he, the wondrous child, 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and April bloom — 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born, 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day — 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 

Far and wide she cannot find him ; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 

Returned this day, the South-wind searches. 

And finds young pines and budding birches ; 

But finds not the budding man ; 

Nature, wlio lost him, cannot remake him; 

Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; 

Nature, Fate, Men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 
Oh, whither tend thy feet ? 



I had the right, few days ago. 

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; 

How have I forfeited the right ? 

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 

I hearken for thy household cheer, 

eloquent child ! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger, 

Conveyed thy meaning mild. 

What though the pains and joys 

Whereof it spoke were toys 

Fitting his age and ken. 

Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 

Who heard the sweet request, 

So gentle, wise, and grave, 

Bended with joy to his behest, 

And let the world's affairs go by, 

Awhile to share his cordial game. 

Or mend his wicker wagon-frame. 

Still plotting how their hungry ear 

That winsome voice again might hear, 

For his lips could well pronounce 

Words that were persuasions. 

Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival. 
When every morn my bosom glowed 
To watch the convoy on the road ; 
The babe in willow wagon closed. 
With rolling eyes and face composed ; 
With children forward and behind. 
Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 
And he the chieftain paced beside. 
The centre of the troop allied. 
With sunny face of sweet repose. 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 
Took the eye with him as he went ; 
Each village senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the window I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade, 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by fairies played ; 
A music, heard by thee alone, 
To works as noble led thee on. 



154 



POFJIS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Xow Love, and Pride, alas ! in vain, 

Up and down their glances strain. 

The painted sled stands where it stood ; 

The kennel by the corded wood ; 

The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 

Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall ; 

The ominous hole he dug in the sand, 

And childhood's castles built or planned ; 

His daily haunts I well discern — 

The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — 

And every inch of garden ground 

Paced by the blessed feet around, 

From the roadside to the brook 

Whereinto he loved to look. 

Step the meek birds where erst they ranged ; 

The wintry garden lies unchanged : 

The brook into the stream runs on ; 

But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 

On that shaded day, 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are, 

When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 

In birdlike heavings unto death, 

Xight came, and Nature had not thee ; 

I said : " We are mates in misery." 

The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 

Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow ; 

Each tramper started ; but the feet 

Of the most beautiful and sweet 

Of human youth had left the hill 

And garden — they were bound and still. 

There's not a sparrow or a wren. 

There's not a blade of Autumn grain. 

Which the four seasons do not tend, 

And tides of life and increase lend ; 

And every chick of every bird. 

And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 

Oh, ostrich-like forgctfulness! 

Oh loss of larger in the less ! 

Was there no star that could be sent, 

Xo watcher in the firnianu'nt. 

No angel from tlie countless host 

That loiters round the crystal coast. 

Could stoop to heal that only cliild, 

Nature's sweet marvel undefiled. 

And keep the blossom of the earth, 

Which all her harvests were not worth? 

Not mine — 1 never called thee mine. 

But Nature's heir — if I repine, 



And seeing rashly torn and moved 

Not what I made, but what I loved, 

Gi-ew early old with grief that thou 

Must to the wastes of Nature go — 

'Tis because a general hope 

Was quenched, and all nnist doubt and grope. 

For flattering planets seemed to say 

This child should ills of ages stay. 

By wondrous tongue, and guided pen. 

Bring the flown ]Muses back to men. 

Perchance not he, but Nature, ailed; 

The world and not the infant failed. 

It was not ripe yet to sustain 

A genius of so fine a strain. 

Who gazed upon the sun and moon 

As if he came unto his own ; 

And, pregnant with his grander thought, 

Brought the old order into doubt. 

His beauty once their beauty tried ; 
They could not feed him, and lie died, 
And wandered backward as in scorn, 
To wait an jpon to be born. 
Ill day which made this beauty waste, 
Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 
Some went and came about the dead ; 
And some in books of solace read ; 
Some to their friends the tidings say ; 
Some went to write, some went to pray ; 
One tarried here, there hurried one ; 
But their heart abode with none. 
Covetous Death l)creaved us all, 
To aggrandize one funeral. 
The eager fate which carried thee 
Took the largest part of me. 
For this losing is true dying; 
This is lordly man's down-lying, 
This his slow but sure reclining, 
Star by star his world resigning. 

child of Paradise, 

Boy who made dear his father's home, 

In whose deep eyes 

]\Ien read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 

The world dishonored thou hast left. 
Oh, trutli's and nature's costly lie ! 
Oh, trusted broken jirojihecy ! 
Oh, richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 



— r 



THRENODY. 155 


The deep Heart answered : " Weepest thou ? 


And thoughtest thou such guest 


Worthier cause for passion wild 


Would in thy hall take uj) his rest ? 


If I had not taken the child. 


Would rushing life forget her laws, 


And deemest thou as those who pore, 


Fate's glowing revolution pause ? 


With aged eyes, short way before — 


High omens ask diviner guess. 


Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 


Not to be conned to tediousness. 


Of matter, and thy darling lost ? 


And know my higher gifts unbind 


Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 


The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 


Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 


When the scanty shores are full 


Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 


With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; 


The mystic gulf from God to man ? 


When frail Nature can no more. 


To be alone wilt thou begin 


Then the Spirit strikes the hour : 


When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 


My servant Death, with solving rite, 


To-morrow when the masks shall fall 


Pours finite into infinite. 


That dizen Nature's carnival, 




The pure shall see by their own will, 


" Wilt thou freeze Love's tidal flow, 


Which overflowing Love shall fill. 


Whose streams through Nature circling go? 


'Tis not within the force of Fate 


Nail the wild star to its track 


The fate-conjoined to separate. 


On the half -climbed zodiac ? 


But thou, my votary, weepest thou f 


Light is light which radiates ; 


I gave tliee sight — where is it now ? 


Blood is blood which circulates ; 


I taught thy heart beyond the reach 


Life is life which generates ; 


Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; 


And many-seeming life is one — 


Wrote in thy mind's transparent table. 


Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 


As far as the incommunicable ; 


Its onward force too starkly pent 


Taught thee each private sign to raise, 


In figure, bone, and lineament ? 


Ijit by the super-solar blaze. 


Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, 


Past utterance, and past belief. 


Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 


And past the blasphemy of grief, 


Nor see the genius of the whole 


The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 


Ascendant in the private soul. 


And though no muse can these impart. 


Beckon it when to go and come. 


Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, 


Self -announced its hour of doom ? 


And all is clear from east to we-ot. 


Fair the soul's recess and shrine. 




Magic-built to last a season ; 


" I came to thee as to a friend ; 


Masterpiece of love l^enign ; 


Dearest, to thee I did not send 


Fairer than expansive reason, 


Tutors, but a joyful eye, 


"Wliose omen 'tis, and sign. 


Innocence that matched the sky. 


Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 


Lovely locks, a forjn of wonder, 


What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? 


Laughter rif^h as woodland thunder. 


Verdict which accumulates 


That thou might'st entertain apart 


From lengthening scroll of human fates, 


The richest flowering of all art ; 


Voice of earth to earth returned. 


And, as the groat all -loving Day 


Prayers of saints that inly burned — 


Through smallest chambers takes its way, 


Saying: What is excellent, 


That thou might'st break thy daily bread 


As God lives, is permanent ; 


With prophet, saviour, and liead ; 


Hearts are diu^t, hearts' loves remain ; 


That thou might'st cherish for thine own 


Hearts' love will meet thee again. 


The riches of sweet Mary's son, 


Revere the ]Maker; fctcli thine eye 


Boy-rabbi, Israel's paragon. 


Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 



156 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Xot of adamant and gold 
Built he heaven stark and cold ; 
No, but a nest of bending reeds, 
Flowering grass, and scented weeds : 
Or like a traveller's fleeing tent. 
Or bow above the tempest bent ; 
Built of tears and sacred flames. 
And virtue reaching to its aims ; 
Built of furtherance and pursuing, 
Xot of spent deeds, but of doing. 
Silent rushes the swift Lord 
Through ruined systems still restored, 
Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless. 
Plants with worlds the wilderness ; 
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 
House and tenant go to ground, 
Lost in God, in Godhead found." 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



And hast thou sought thy heavenly home. 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come. 

Where life is joy ? 
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth. 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Despair was in our last farewell, 

As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die ; 
Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathomed agony, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Thou wert a vision of delight, 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven ! 
So dear to us thou wert. thou art 
Even loss thine own self than a part 
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, 
Casa Wappy ! 

* The eolf-appellativc of a beloved child. 



Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, 

'Twas cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine, 

Beloved boy ! 
This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; 
That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 

Earth's undefiled, 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 

Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Do what I may, go where I will, 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still, 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, 
Till oh I my heart is like to break, 
Casa Wappy! 

Methinks thou smil'st before me now, 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

Li buoyant health ; 
I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright — 
Thy clasping arms so round and white — 
Casa Wappy I 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall. 

Thy bat, thy bow, 
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 

But where art thou ? 
A corner holds thine empty chair; 
Thy playthings, idly scattered there. 
But speak to us of our despair, 
Casa Wappy! 

Even to the last, thy every word. 

To glad, to grieve. 
Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 

On Summer's eve ; 



I 



CASA 


WAPPY. 157 


In outward beauty undecayed, 


Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 


Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 


With beam of love. 


And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, 


A star, death's uncongenial wild 


Casa Wappy ! 


Smiling above ! 




Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod 


We mourn for thee when blind, blank night 


The skyward path, the seraph's road, 


The chamber fills ; 


That led thee back from man to God, 


We pine for thee when morn's first light 


Casa Wappy ! 


Reddens the hills ; 




The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 


Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair. 


All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 


Fond, fairest boy. 


Are changed ; we saw the world through thee, 


That Heaven is God's, and thou art there. 


Casa Wappy ! 


With him in Joy ; 




There past are death and all its woes ; 


And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 


There beauty's stream for ever flows ; 


Of casual mirth. 


And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 


It doth not own, what e'er may seem, 


Casa Wappy ! 


An inward birth ; 




We miss thy small step on the stair ; 


Farewell then, for a while, farewell. 


We miss thee at thine evening prayer : 


Pride of ray heart ! 


All day we miss thee, everywhere, 


It cannot be that long we dwell, 


Casa Wappy I 


Thus torn apart. 




Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 


Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 


And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 


In life's spring-bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below. 


Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 


The silent tomb. 


But now the green leaves of the tree. 


David ^Iacbeth Moir. 


The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 




Return — but with them bring not thee, 




Casa Wappy ! 






m^ ariiiib. 


'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers 




Revive again — 


I CANNOT make him dead I 


Man's doom, in death that we and ours 


His fair sunshiny head 


For aye remain ? 


Is ever bounding round ray study chair ; 


Oh ! can it be that, o'er the grave, 


Yet, when ray eyes, now dim 


The grass renewed should yearly wave. 


With tears, I turn to hira. 


Yet God forget our child to save ? 


The vision vanishes — he is not there I 


Casa Wappy ! 






I walk my parlor floor. 


It cannot be : for were it so 


And, through the open door, 


Thus man could die, 


I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 


Life were mockery, thought were "Woe, 


I'm stepping toward the hall 


And truth a lie ; 


To give the boy a call ; 


Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 


And then bethink me that — he is not there! 


Religion frenzy, virtue vain, 




And all our hopes to meet again, 


I thread the crowded street ; 


Casa Wappy ! 


A satchelled lad I meet. 



158 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



With the same beaminsr eves and colored hair 

O a. 

And, as he's running by, 
Follow him with ray eye, 
Scarcely believinsr that — he is not there I 



I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 

Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form 1 used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there 1 

He lives! — In all the past 

lie lives ; nor, to the last. 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there ! " 

Yes, we all live to God I 
Father, thy chastening rod 



So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit-land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 

John Pierpont. 



i^ox (!lliavlic]s Sake. 

The night is late, the house is still ; 

The angels of the hour fulfil 

Their tender ministries, and move 

From couch to couch, in cares of love. 

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 

The happiest smile of Charlie's life. 

And lay on baby's lips a kiss, 

Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 

And as they pass, they seem to make 

A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's sake." 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again. 
Fitted with words of lowly praise, 
And patience learned of mournful days, 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 

His will be done. Ilis will be done! 
Who gave and took away my son. 
In " the far land " to shine and sing 
Before the Beautiful, the King, 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 

I will anoint me where he lies. 

And change my raiment, and go in 

To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 

Without, and seat me at his board. 

Eat. and be glad, and praise the Lord. 

For wherefore should I fast and weep, 

And sullen moods of mourning keepi 

I cannot bring him back, nor he. 

For any calling, come to me. 

The bond the angel Death did sign, 

God sealed — for Charlie's sake, and mine. 

I'm XQTX poor — this slender stone 
Marks all the narrow field I own ; 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 



159 



Yet, patient husbandman, 1 till, 

With faith and prayers, that precious hill, 

Sow it with penitential pains, 

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains ; 

Content if, after all, the spot 

Yield barely one forg'et-me-not — • 

Whether or figs or thistles make 

My crop, content for Charlie's sake. 

1 have no houses, builded well — 

Only that little lonesome cell, 

Where never romping playmates come, 

Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb — 

An April burst of girls and boys, 

Their rainbow cloud of glooms and joys 

Born with their songs, gone with their toys ; 

Nor ever is its stillness stirred 

By purr of cat, or chirp of bird. 

Or mother's twilight legend, told 

Of Plorner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, 

Or fairy hobbling to the door, 

Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor. 

To bless the good child's gracious eyes, 

The good child's wistful charities. 

And crippled changeling's hunch to make 

Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. 

How is it with the child ? 'Tis well ; 

Nor would I any miracle 

Might stir my sleepers tranquil trance, 

Or plague his painless countenance : 

I would not any seer might place 

His staff on my immortal's face, 

Or lip to lip, and eye to eye. 

Charm back his pale mortality. 

No, Shunammite ! I would not break 

God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. 

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest : 
No comfort like his mother's breast. 
No praise like hers ; no charm expressed 
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed 
That death left lonely in the nest ; 
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, 
As for its birthday, in its best ; 
For Cliarlie's sake we leave the rest 
To Iliin who gave, and who did take, 
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. 

John Williamson Palmer, 



£os5 anb (5ain. 

When the baby died, we said, 
With a sudden, secret dread : 
" Death, be merciful, and pass ; — 
Leave the other ! " — but alas ! 

While we watched he waited there, 
One foot on the golden stair, 
One hand beckoning at the gate, 
Till the home was desolate. 

Friends say, " It is better so, 
Clothed in innocence to go ; " 
Say, to ease the parting pain. 
That " your loss is but their gain." 

Ah ! the parents think of this I 
But remember more the kiss 
From the little rose-red lips ; 
And the print of finger-tips 

Left upon the broken toy. 
Will remind them how the boy 
And his sister charmed the days 
With their pretty, winsome ways. 

Only time can give relief 
To the weary, lonesome grief : 
God's sweet minister of pain 
Then shall sing of loss and gain. 

XoRA Perry. 



tlK toibam anb (Cliilb. 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low. 
Called him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept. 

Took a face-cloth from the face, 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 



160 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee ; 
Like summer tempest came her tears, 

" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

Alfred Tenntsox. 



®lic Ucconciliiition. 

As through the land at eve we went, 

And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, — 
Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave. 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again with tears. 

Alfred Tenxtson. 



^ Crablc Gong. 

Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber ; 

Holy angels guard thy bed ! 
Heavenly blessings without number 

Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment. 
House and home, thy friends provide, 

All without thy care or payment. 
All thy wants are well supplied. 



How much better thou 'rt attended 

Than the Son of God could be, 
When from heaven he descended, 

And became a child like thee ! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 

When his birth-place was a stable, 
And his softest bed was hay. 

See the kindly shepherds round him. 

Telling wonders from the sky ! 
Where they sought him. there they found him, 

With his Virgin-Mother by. 

See the lovely babe a-dressing ! 

Lovely infant, how he smiled ! 
When he wept, the mother's blessing 

Soothed and hushed the holy child. 

Lo, he slumbers in his manger. 

Where the horned oxen fed ; 
Peace, my darling ! here's no danger, 

Here's no ox a-near thy bed ! 

May'st thou live to know and fear him, 
Trust and love him all thy days : 

Then go dwell for ever near him ; 
See his face, and sing his praise. 

I could give thee thousand kisses, 

Hoping what I most desire : 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire. 

Isaac Watts. 



PAET III. 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP 



GiEB treulich mir die HSnde, 
Sei Bruder mir, und wende 
Den Blick, vor deinem Ende, - 

Nicht wieder weg von mir. 
Ein Tempel wo wir knieen, 
Ein Ort wohin wir Ziehen, 
Ein Gluck f fir das wir gluhen, 

Ein Himmel mir und dir ! 

NOVALIS. 



Then let the chill sirocco blow. 

And gird us round with hills of snow ; 

Or else go whistle to the shore, 

And make the hollow mountains roar ; 

Whilst we together jovial sit 
Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit ; 
Where, though bleak winds confine us home, 
Our fancies round the world shall roam. 

We'll think of all the friends we know. 
And drink to all worth drinking to ; 
When, having drunk all thine and mine, 
We rather shall want health than wine. 

But where friends fail us, we'll supply 
Our friendships with our charity ; 
Men that remote in sorrows live, 
Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 

We'll drink the wanting into wealth, 
And those that languish into health, 



The afflicted into joy, th' opprest 
Into security and rest. 

The worthy in disgrace shall find 
Favor return again more kind ; 
And in restraint who stifled lie, 
Shall taste the air of liberty. 

The brave shall triumph in success ; 
The lovers shall have mistresses ; 
Poor unregarded virtue, praise ; 
And the neglected poet, bays. 

Thus shall our healths do others good, 
Whilst we ourselves do all we would ; 
For, freed from envy and from care, 
What would we be, but what we are ? 

'Tis the plump grape's immortal juice 
That does this happiness produce, 
And will preserve us free together, 
Maugre mischance, or wind and weather. 

Charles Cotton. 



rs 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



(Jarlri i^ricnbsl)ip. 

The half -seen memories of childish days, 

When pains and pleasures lightly came and 
went ; 

The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
In fearful wanderings through forbidden ways ; 
The vague but manly wish to tread the maze 

Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent, 

Asking to know for what man here is sent, 
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze ; 
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 

Of manhood's Judgment, cautious and mature : 
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend 

"With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; 
My happy lot is this, that all attend 

That friendship which first came, and which 

shall last endure. 

AtiBREY De Verb. 



tol)cn sl)ail roe ^[)vcc illcct again? 

When shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire. 
Oft shall wearied love retire. 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands we sigh. 
Parched beneath a hostile sky ; 
Thougii the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls. 



Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled. 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold oblivion's shade, 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
Where immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again. 



Anonymous. 



Sonnets. 

When I do count the clock that tells the time, 

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
When I behold the violet past prime. 

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, 

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; 
Then, of thy beauty do I question make, 

That thou among the wastes of time must go, 
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, 

And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst Time's ocyt he can makedefence. 
Save breed, to brave him. when he takes thee hence. 



Shall 1 compare thee to a Summer's day ? 

Thou art more lovely and more temj^erato; 
Rough winds do sluiko the darling buds of May, 

And Summer's lease hath all too short a date. 



164 



P0E31S OF FRIENDSHIP. 



iin- 



Soinetinies too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed, 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance, or nature's changing course, 
trimmed ; 
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade, 

Xor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade. 

When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 



So is it not with me as with that Muse, 

Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse ; 
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, 

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; 
3Iaking a couplement of proud compare. 

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich 
gems. 
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare 

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. 
Oh let me, true in love, but truly write. 

And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright 

As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: 
Let them say more that like of hearsay well ; 
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. 



Let those who are in favor with their stars, 

Of public honor and proud titles boast ; 
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumphs bars, 

Unlooked-for joy in that I honor most. 
Great princes' favorites tlieir fair leaves spread 

But as the marigold at the sun's eye ; 
And in themselves their pride lies buried, 

For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior fainoused for fight, 

After a thousand victories once foiled. 
Is from the book of honor razed quite. 

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved. 
Where 1 nuiy not remove nor be removed. 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
1 all alone l)eweep my outcast state. 

And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries. 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 



Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 

Featured like him, like him with friends pos- 
sessed. 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on thee, and then ray state 
(Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. 
For thy sweet love remembered such -wealth brings, 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's 
waste. 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And W'Cep afresh love's long since cancelled woe. 

And moan tli' expense of many a vanished sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 

Which I new pay, as if not paid before : 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 



Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, 

Which I by lacking have supposed dead ; 
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, 

And all those friends which I thought buried. 
IIow many a holy and obsequious tear 

Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 

But things removed, that hidden in thee lie ! 
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, 

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, 
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ; 

That due of many now is thine alone : 
Their images I loved I view in thee. 
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. 



Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
Gilding pale streams with heavy alchemy; 



SONNJETS. 



165 



Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 

With ugly rack on his celestial face. 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 

With all triumphant splendor on my brow ; 
But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine, 

The region cloud hath masked him from me 
now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun 
staineth. 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, 

And make me travel forth without my cloak, 
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way. 

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, 

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 
For no man well of such a salve can speak, 

That heals the wound, and cures not the dis- 
grace : 
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief — 

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : 
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief 

To him that bears the strong offence's cross. 
Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds, 
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. 



What is your substance, whereof are you made, 

That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade. 

And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 

Is poorly imitated after you ; 
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, 

And you in Grecian tires are painted new : 
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year — 

The one doth shadow of your beauty show, 
The other as your bounty doth appear ; 

And you in every blessed shape we know. 
In all external grace you have some part ; 
But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 



On, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 



The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
Ilang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 

When summer's breath their masked buds dis- 
closes ; 
But for their virtue only is their show, 

They live un wooed, and unrespected fade ; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made : 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. 
When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth. 



Not marble, not the gilded monuments 

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish 
time. 
Wlien wasteful war shall statues overturn, 

And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall 
burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still find 
room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity. 

That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise. 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 

William Shakespeare. 



irom ''In i^Icmoriam.'' 

I EXVY not, in any moods. 
The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods. 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes : 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 



166 



P0E3IS OF FRIENDSHIP, 



1 hold it true, whate'er befall, 
1 feel it when 1 sorrow most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possessed the earth. 

And sadly fell our Christmas eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambolled, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech ; 

We heard them sweep the winter land : 

And in a circle hand in hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sang, though every eye was dim — 

A merry song we sang with him 
Last year, impetuously we sang ; 

We ceased. A gentler feeling crept 

Upon us ; surely rest is meet : 

"They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet." 
And silence followed, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not die. 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 

Nor change to us, although they change : 

• 
" Rapt from the fickle and the frail, 

With, gathered power, yet the same, 

Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 

'• Rise, happy morn ! rise holy morn ! 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night ! 

Father ! touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was born." 



Dost thou look ])ack on what hath been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began, 

And on a simple village green ? 



Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

"Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope. 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 
When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate. 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He played at counsellors and kings 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea. 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



Witch-elms, that counterchange the fioor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town ! 

He brought an eye for all he saw, 
He mixed in all our simple sports; 
They pleased him, fresii from brawling courts 

And dusky purlieus of the law. 

Oh joy to him, in this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark. 

To drink the cooler air, and mark 
The landscape winking through the heat. 






FROM ''IN MEMORIAMr 



107 



Oh sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew. 

And tumbling half the mellowing pears! 

Oh bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed, 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn ; 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung. 
Or here she brought the harp, and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon ! 

Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discussed the books to love or hate, 
Or touched the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream. 

But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still. 
For " ground in yonder social mill, 

We rub each other's angles down, ■ 

" And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talked ; the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couched in moss. 

Or cooled within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fallen into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle deep in flowers, 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years ; 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 



On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 
The proud was half disarmed of pride ; 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his treble tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by ; 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee ; and the brazen fool 

Was softened, and he knew not why : 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart, 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were thine 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill. 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near, in woe and weal ; 
Oh, loved the most when most I feel 

There is a low^er and a higher ; 

Known and unknown, human, divine ! 
Sweet human hand and lips and eye. 
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die. 

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ! 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be, 
Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 
Behold I dream a dream of good, 

And mingle all the world with thee. 



Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun. 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou, then ? I cannot guess ; 
But though I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee, some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less ; 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Though mixed with God and nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 



168 



POEMS OF FRIEXDSHIP, 



Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
I have thee still, and I rejoice, 
I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 

I shall not lose thee, though I die. 

Alfred Tenntsok. 



Jaffar. 

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good vizier. 

The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, 

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; 

And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust 

Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say. 

Ordained that no man living from that day 

Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. 

All Araby and Persia held their breath ; 

All but the brave Mondeer : he, proud to show 
How far for love a grateful soul could go, 
And facing death for very scorn and grief 
(For his gi'eat heart wanted a great relief ), 
Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square 
Where once had stood a happy house, and there 
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar 
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 

" Bring me this man," the caliph cried ; the man 
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began 
To bind his arms. " Welcome, brave cords," cried 

he. 
" From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; 
From wants, from shames, from loveless household 

f cai's ; 
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears ; 
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" 

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss. 
Now deigned to smile, as one gi'eat lord of fate 
Might smile upon another half as great. 
He said : " Let worth grow frenzied if it will ; 
The caliph's judgment shall be master still. 
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, 
The richest in the Tartar's diadem, 
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!" 
"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and hold- 
ing it 



High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star. 
Exclaimed, " This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar ! " 

Leigh Hunt. 



^\)t £\xc 0f Drift- tooob. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay. 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port. 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 
The light-house, the dismantled fort. 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night. 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene. 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been. 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends. 
When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 
Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 

The flames would leap and tiien expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed. 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed. 
And sent no answer back again. 



QUA CURSUM VEyTUS. 169 


The windows, rattling in their frames, 


(tivii\ Cursum b:ntus. 


The ocean roaring up the beach, 


The gustv blast, the bickering flames, 




C7 • CJ ' 

All mingled vaguelv in our speech ; 


As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 


C7 C7 • JL ' 


With canvas drooping, side by side. 


Until they made themselves a part 


Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 


Of fancies floating through the brain, — 


Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried : 


The long-lost ventures of the heart. 




That send no answers back again. 


VV hen fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 




And all the darkling hours they plied ; 


Oh flames that glowed I Oh hearts that yearned I 


Xor dreamt but each the self-same seas 


They were indeed too much akin : 


By each was cleaving, side by side ; 


The drift-wood fire without that burned. 




The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 


E'en so — but why the tale reveal 


Hbxbt Wadswobth Loxgfellow. 


Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 




Brief absence joined anew to feel, 




Astounded, soul from soul estranged! 


Z\]c p.iss'.igc. 


At dead of night theii- sails were filled. 


Many a year is in its gi-ave, 


And onward each rejoicing steered ; 


Since I crossed this restless wave ; 


Ah, neither blame, for neither willed 


And the evening, fair as ever. 


Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 


Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 






To veer, how A-ain I On. onward strain. 


Then in this same boat l)eside 


Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too I 


Sat two comrades old and tried ; 


Through winds and tides one compass guides — 


One with all a father's ti-uth. 


To that and your own selves be true. 


One with all the fire of youth. 






But blithe breeze I and great seas. 


One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his gi'ave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 


Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 


Passed in battle and in storm. 




So. whene'er I turn my eye 


One port, methought, alike they sought 


Back upon the days gone by, 


One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 


Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 


bounding breeze. rushing seas, 


Friends that closed theii* course before me. 


At last, at last, unite them there I 




ARTHrn Hugh Ci-orGH. 


But what binds us, friend to friend. 




But that soul with soul can blend ? 




Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 




Let us walk in soul once more. 


Ca|jc-Ccttagc at Sunset. 


Take. boatman, thrice thy fee, 


We stood upon the ragged rocks. 


Take. I give it willingly ; 


When the long day was nearly done ; 


For. invisible to thee. 


The waves had ceased their sullen shocks, 


Spirits twain have crossed with me. 


And lapped our feet with murmuring tone, 


LuDT^^o Uhlaxd, (German.) 


And o'er the bay in streaming locks 


Translation of Sarah ArsTix. 


Blew the red tresses of the sun. 



170 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Along the West the golden bars 

Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
Above our heads the faint, few stars 

Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
And the fair city's clamorous jars 

Seemed melted in that evening hue. 

Oh sunset sky ! Oh purple tide ! 

Oh friends to friends that closer pressed ! 
Those glories have in darkness died, 

And ye have left my longing breast. 
I could not keep you by my side, 

Nor fix that radiance in the West. 

Upon those rocks the waves shall beat 

With the same low and murmuring strain; 

Across those waves, with glancing feet, 
The sunset rays shall seek the main ; 

But when together shall we meet 
Upon that far-off shore again ? 

William Belcher Glazier. 



I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions. 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
days ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cro- 
nies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 

her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingratc, I left my friend al)niptly. 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
hood. 
Earth seemed a desert 1 was bound to traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwell- 
ing? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 

Charlbs Lamb. 



Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of time 

That only treads on flowers I 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond-sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah I who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage to his wings ? 

William Robert Spencer. 



Stanzas \o Qlngnsta. 

[byron to his sister.] 

Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul witli my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love which my spirit liath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As tlie breasts I believed in with me. 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 



A WINTER WISH. 171 


Thoiif^b th? rock of my last hope is shivered, 


We have been gay together ; 


And its fragments are sunk in the. wave, 


We have laughed at little jests ; 


Though I feel that my soul is delivered 


For the fount of hope was gushing. 


To pain — it shall not be its slave. 


Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 


There is many a pang to pursue me : 


But laughter now hath fled thy lip. 


They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 


And sullen glooms thy brow ; 


They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 


We have been gay together — 


'Tis of thee that I think, not of them. 


Shall a light word part us now ? 


Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 


We have been sad together — 


Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 


We have wept, with bitter tears, 


Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 


O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 


Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, 


The hopes of early years. 


Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 


The voices which are silent there 


Though parted, it was not to fly. 


Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 


Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 


We have been sad togethei- — 


Xor mute, that the world might belie. 


Oh I what shall part us now ? 




Caroline Norton. 


Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 




Nor the war of the many with one ; 




If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
'Twas folly not sooner to shun ; 


a tointer tOisl]. 


And if dearly that error hath cost me, 


Old wine to drink ! — 


And more than I once could foresee, 


Ay, give the slippery juice 


I have found that, whatever it lost me, 


That di-ippeth from the grape thrown loose 


It could not deprive me of thee. 


Within the tun ; 




Plucked from beneath the cliff 


From the %vreck of the past which hath perished 


Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 


Thus much I at least may recall. 


And ripened 'neath the blink 


It hath taught me that what I most cherished 


Of India's sun ! 


Deserved to be dearest of all. 


Peat whiskey hot. 


In the desert a fountain is springing. 


Tempered with well-boiled water! 


In the wild waste there still is a tree, 


These make the long night shorter, — 


And a bird in the solitude singing. 


Forgetting not 


Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 


Good stout old English porter. 


Lord Btron. 






Old wood to burn ! — 




Ay, bring the hill-side beech 


\ 


From where the owlets meet and screech, 


lUc I^atJC been i^ricnbs togctlicr. 


And ravens croak ; 


The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 


We have been friends together, 


Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 


In sunshine and in shade ; 


Dug 'neath the fern ; 


Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 


The knotted oak, 


In infancy we played. 


A fagot too, perhap, 


But coldness dwells within thy heart. 


Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 


A cloud is on thy brow ; 


Shall light us at our drinking ; 


We have been friends together — 


While the oozing sap 


Shall a light word part us now ? 


Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 



172 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


Old books to read I — 


Xo danger fear 


Ay, bring tliose nodes of wit, 


While wine is near — 


The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, 


We'll drown him if he stings us. 


Time-honored tomes I 


Then wreathe the bowl 


The same my sire scanned before, 


With flowers of soul, 


The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


The same his sire from college bore, 


We'll take a flight 


The well-earned meed 


Towards heaven to-night, 


Of Oxford's domes : 


And leave dull earth behind us I 


Old Homer blind, 




Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 


'Twas nectar fed 


Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; 


Of old, 'tis said. 


Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie. 


Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 


Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay! 


And man may brew 


And Gervasc Markham's vcnerie — 


His nectar too ; 


Nor leave behind 


The rich receipt's as follows : — 


The Holye Book by which we live and die. 


Take wine like this ; 


. 


Let looks of bliss 


Old friends to talk! — 


Around it well be blended ; 


Ay, bring those chosen few. 


Then bring wit's beam 


The wise, the courtly, and the true, 


To warm the stream. 


So rarely found ; 


And there's your nectar, splendid ! 


Him for my wine, him for my stud, 


So wreathe the bowl 


Him for my easel, distich, bud 


With flowers of soul, 


In mountain walk ! 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


Bring Walter good : 


We'll take a flight 


With soulful Fred ; and learned Will, 


Towards heaven to-night. 


And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


For every mood). 




These add a bouquet to my wine ! 


Say, why did Time 


These add a sparkle to my pine ! 


His glass sublime 


If these I tine. 


Fill up with sands unsightly, 


Can books, or fire, or wine be good % 


When wine he knew 




Runs brisker through, 


Robert Hinckley Messingkr. 


An 11 t^ I'liiA 




And sparkles far more brightly i 




Oh, lend it us. 




And, smiling thus, 


d 


The glass in two we'd sever, 


U3rcatl)c tl)c Doujl. 


jNIakc pleasure glide 




In double tide. 


Wreathe the bowl 


And fill both ends for ever! 


With flowers of soul, 


Then wreathe the bowl 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


With flowers of soul. 


We'll take a flight 


The brightest wit can find us ; 


Towards heaven to-night. 


We'll take a fiight 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


Towards heaven to-night, j 


Should Love amid 


And leave dull earth behind us ! 


The wreaths be hid 






Thomas Moore. 


That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, 





FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 173 




Old Charon's self shall make him mellow. 


Sparkling anb Briglit. 


Then gayly row his boat from shore ; 




While we, and every iovial fellow, 


Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 


7 J V ' 

Hear, unconcerned, the oar, 


Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; 


' 7 7 

That dips itself ih wine ! 


With hue as red as the rosy bed 


John Kf.nton. 


Which a bee would choose to dream in. 




Tlien fill to-night, with hearts as light, 




To loves as gay and fleeting 




As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 


-fill tl)c Dum^jcr fair. 


And break on the lips while meeting. 


Fill the bumper fair ! 


Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 


Every drop we sprinkle 


Of Time through Life's dominions, 


O'er the brow of care 


We here a while would now beguile 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


The graybeurd of his pinions, 


Wit's electric flame 


To drink to-night, with hearts as light, 


Ne'er so swiftly passes 


To loves as gay and fleeting 


As when through the frame 


As bubbles that sivim on the beaker's brim, 


It shoots from brimming glasses. 


And break on the lips while meeting. 


Fill the bumper fair ; 




Every drop ice sprinkle 


But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 


O'er the brow of care 


Nor fond Regret delay him, 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 




Nor sober Friendship stay him. 


Sages can, they say, 


We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light, 


Grasp the lightning's pinions. 


To loves as gay and fleeting 


And bring down its ray 


As bubbles that swim on the beakefs brim, 


From the starred dominions : — 


And break or the lips while meeting. 


So we, sages, sit. 


Charles Fenno Hoffman. 


And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 




From the heaven of wit 




Draw down all its lightning. 


(jlfiampagnc Hose. 






Wouldst thou know what first 


Lily on liquid roses floating — 


Made our souls inherit 


So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne. 


This ennobling thirst 


Fain would I join such pleasant boating, 


For wine's celestial spirit? 


And prove that ruby main, 


It chanced upon that day. 


And float away on wine ! 


When, as bards inform us, 


Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear, 


Prometheus stole away 


Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 


The living fires that warm us : 


And true it is they drown old Care — 




But what care we for liim. 


The careless youth, when up 


So we but float on wine ! 


To Glory's fount aspiring. 




Took nor urn nor cup 


And true it is they cross in pain. 


To hide the pilfered fire in. 


Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 


But oh his joy. when, round 


But only make our Styx champagne, 


The halls of lieaven spying, 


And we shall cross right merry. 


Among the stars, he found 


Floating away in wine ! 


A bowl of Bacchus lying ! 



174 



POEMS OF FRlEyDSHIP. 



Some drops were in that bowl, 

Remains of last night's pleasure, 
With which the sparks of soul 

Mixed their burning treasure. 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us ; 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Thomas Moore. 



^\ib boti) not a iUccting like tl)is. 

AxD doth not a meeting like this make amends 

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away — 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends, 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? 
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er 
mine, 

The snow-fall of Time may be stealing — what 
then? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, 

We'll wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses again. 

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart. 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part. 
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, 
throng ; 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 

When held to the flame will steal out on the 
sight. 
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced. 
The warmth of a moment like this brings to 
light. 

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide. 

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, 
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide. 

The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; 
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers 

That once made a garden of all the gay shore. 
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours. 

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once 
more. 



So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, 

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; 
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost 

For want of some heart that could echo it, near. 
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is 
gone. 

To meet in some world of more permanent 
bliss ; 
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on. 

Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart. 
The more we should welcome, and bless them the 
more ; 
They're ours, when we meet — they are lost when 
we part — 
Like birds that bi-ing Summer, and fly when 'tis 
o'er. 
Thus circling the cup. hand in hand, ere we drink. 
Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, 
through pain. 
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link. 

Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. 

Thomas Moore. 



flotD Gtaubs tlic (!Mass '^rounb? 

How stands the glass around? 
For shame ! ye take no care, my boys ; 

How stands the glass around ? 

Let mirth and wine abound. 

The trumpets sound ; 
The colors they are flying, boys. 

To fight, kill, or wound, 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why 
Should we be melancholy, boys ? 

Why, soldiers, why. 

Whose business 'tis to die? 

What, sighing? fie I 
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis he. you, or 1 I 

Cold, hot, wet or dry. 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to flv. 



FAREWELL ! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. 



175 



'Tis but in vain — 
I mean not to upbraid you, boys — 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain : 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him who made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ! 

But if we remain, 
A bottle and a kind landlady 

Cure all again. 



Anonymous. 



^omc, ^c\\b ttoxinb tl^c tXlinc. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of be- 
lief 
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and too brief 
To be withered and stained by the dust of the 
schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, 
But while they are filled from the same bright 
bowl. 
The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue 
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side, 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds may agree ? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me i 
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? 
No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try 

Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this ! 

Thomas Mooke. 



®o (£I)omas illoorc. 

My boat is on the shore. 
And my bark is on the sea; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh for those that love me. 
And a smile for those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 



Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell 

'Tis to thee that 1 would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should b^ — Peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 

Lord Byron. 



i^aretDcll! but tDbencuer ^ou tXlelcomc 
i\)t §our. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

bower. 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it 

too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of 

pain, 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering with 

you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each 

cup, 
W^here'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that 

night — 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 

wiles. 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ; 
Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay 

cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he were 

here I " 



176 



POEJIS OF FRIEXDSHIP, 



Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- 
stroy ! 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled I 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ; 
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Thomas Moore. 



^\\c Ballab of BoniUabaisse. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Xeuve des petits Champs its name is — 

The Xew Street of the Little Fields; 
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable ease. 
The which in youth I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, safifem. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Lidecd, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural Ijeauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Xor find a fast -day too afflicting. 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is f 

Yes, here the lamp is as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 



We enter ; nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; 

•• Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's nm his race ? " 
'• ^\Tiat will Monsieur require for dinner f " 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

" Oh, oui. Monsieur,'' 's the waiter's answer ; 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il f " 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
"He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and BouUlabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah I vanished many a busy year is. 

This well-kno^vn chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

\Miere are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine f 
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace : 
Around the board they take their places. 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; 
On James's head the grass is growing: 

Good Lord ! the world lias wagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing. 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. 

In this same place — but not alone. 



I 



SAIXT PERAY. 



177 



A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 
****** 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you doAvn and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 

WiLUAM Makepeace Thackeray. 



Saint Per an. 

ADDRESSED TO H. T. P. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic, faint and sick, 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick : 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; 
Was't not he that did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries f 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next, in pleasant Xormandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and various, 
Reaching Xaples, as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius ; 

But I was a fool to try him : 

Xauglit I said could liquefy him ; 

And I swear he did me wrong, 

Keeping me shut up so long 



^4 



In that pest-house, with obscene 
Jews and Greeks and things unclean — 
What need had I of quarantine ? 

In Sicily at least a score — 
In Spain about as many more — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe ! said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame, 

To Assisi's walls I came ; 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis ; 

But the beggar never did 

Any thing as he was bid. 

Never gave me aught — but fleas — 

Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice, 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first, 
In the witching time of thirst, 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips, 
All saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine. 
That methought such bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 

Rest he gave me, and refection. 
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, 
Softened images of sorrow, 
Bright forebodings for the morrow, 
Charity for what is past. 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 
The name of this good creature lackf 
Or wherefore should the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 



178 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



The Pope himself should grant a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 
But, since no day hath been appointed, 
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed, 
Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 
Send round your bottles, Hal, and set your night. 

TH03IAS William Parsons. 



Nigfit at ^ca. 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 

Has vanished from the waters, where it flung 
A royal color, such as gems are throwing 

Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming, 

Through the slight vapor trembles each dim star ; 
I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 

Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping. 

Farther am 1 from old dear friends removed ; 
Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 

I did not know how much you were beloved. 
How many acts of kindness little heeded, 

Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproachful now ! 
Hurried and anxious, my vexed life has speeded. 

And memory wears a soft accusing brow. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 

Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above ; 
I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them 

At the same moment with a mutual love. 
Tliey shine not there, as here they now are shining; 

The very hours are changed. Ah, do ye sleep f 
O'er each home pillow midnight is declining — 

May some kind dream at least my image keep ! 
My friends, my alisent friends I 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

Yesterday has a charm. To-day could never 

Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till it 
parts 

How it tunis back with tenderest endeavor 
To fix the past within the heart of hearts. 



Absence is full of memory ; it teaches 
The value of all old familiar things ; 
The strengthener of affection, while it reaches 
O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. 
My friends, my absent friends I 
Do you think of me, as 1 think of you i 

The world, with one vast element omitted, 
Man's own especial element, the earth ; 
Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
By that great knowledge whence has power its 
birth. 
How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing 

Have I wished for you — beautiful as new. 
The purple waves like some wild army raising 
Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 

Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning. 

Up springs the flying fish like life's false joy, 
Wliich of the sunshine asks that frail adorning 

W^hose very light is fated to destroy. 
Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion 

Spring from the depths of an unkindly world ; 
So spring sweet fancies from the heart's domin- 
ion — 
Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Whate'er I see is linked with thoughts of 
you. 

Xo life is in the air, but in the waters 

Are creatures, huge, and terrible, and strong ; 
The sword-fish and the shark pursue their slaugh- 
ters. 
War universal reigns these depths along. 
Like some new island on the ocean springing, 
Floats on the surface some gigantic whale, 
From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, 
Bright as the fountain in a faiiy tale. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
I read such fairy legends while with you. 

Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading, 
The moon is whitening the dusky sails. 

From the thick bank of clouds she masters, shed- 
ding 
The softest influence that o'er night prevails. 



J 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. 



179 



Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor, 
Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too 
deep ; 
The very glory that she wears is tender, 

The eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, as 1 think of you ? 

Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning 

Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes ; 
The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning 

What toil upon a path so sunny lies. 
Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather 

Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 
But memory and moonlight go together, 

Reflected in the light that either brings. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 
Do you think of me, then ? I think of you. 

The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking 

But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 
The waves against the sides incessant breaking. 

And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. 
The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle 

Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; 
While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle. 

The only light on board to guide us — where ? 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Far from my native land, and far from you. 

On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer 

In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea, 
But where the shadow^ falls, a strange, pale glimmer 

Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be. 
All that the spirit thinks of thought and feeling. 

Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; 
But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing, 

I start — remembrance has a keener power: 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

From the fair dream I start to think of you. 

A dusk line in the moonlight — I discover 

What all day long I vainly sought to catch ; 
Or is it but the varying clouds that hover 

Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch ? 
Xo ; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing. 

Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; 
To that dark line our eager ship is steering. 

Her voyage done — to-morrow we shall land. 

LuETiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 



iri)c 3ournc2 ©ntmu-bs. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembling pennant still looked back 

To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 

To those we've left behind us ! 

When, round the bowl, of vanished years 

We talk with joyous seeming, 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us. 
Oh sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those we've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 

And naught but love is wanting ; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assigned us 
To live and die in scenes like this. 

With some we've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consigned us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that's left behind us. 

Thomas Moore. 



iri)c (!3oob (Time (Coming. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
We may not live to see the day, 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 



180 



POEMS OF FRIEXDSHIP. 



Ciuinon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought's a "weapon stronger : 
We'll win our battle by its aid : — 



Wait a little longer. 



There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Right, not Mighty shall be the lord 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 

And be acknowledged stronger ; 
The proper impulse has been given ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

Thei'e's a good time coming, bays, 

A good time coming : 
War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 

In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then. 

To prove which is the stronger ; 
Xor slaughter men for glory^s sake ;• — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Hateful livalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 

In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride. 

And flourish all the stronger ; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
And a poor man's family 
Shall not be his misery 

In the good time coming. 
Every child shall be a help 

To make his right arm stronger ; 
The happier he, the more he has ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Little children shall not toil 
Under, or above, the soil 

In the good time coming ; 



But shall play in healthful fields. 
Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 

And every one shall read and write : — 
Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The people shall be temperate, 
And shall love instead of hate. 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse. 

And make all virtue stronger ; 
The reformation has begun ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Let us aid it aU we can. 
Every woman, every man, 

The good time coming : 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'Twill be stl'ong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

Charles Mackat. 



% (5oob Zxxac ^oing! 

ADDRESSED TO CHARLES MACKAY. OX HIS DEPARTURE 
FROM AMERICA. 

Brave singer of the coming time. 

Sweet minstrel of the joyous present. 
Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme. 

The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant. 
Good by ! Good by ! Our hearts and hands, 

Our lips in honest Saxon phrases. 
Cry, God be with him, till he stands 

His feet among the English daisies ! 

'Tis here we part ; — for other eyes 

The busy deck, the fluttering streamer. 
The dripping arms that plunge and rise, 

The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, 
The kerchiefs waving from the pier, 

The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him. 
The deep blue desert, lone and drear. 

With heaven above and home before him ! 



1 

\ 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 



181 



His home ! — the Western giant smiles, 

And twirls the spotty globe to find it ; 
This little speck the British Isles ? 

'Tis but a freckle, — never mind it ! 
He laughs, and all his prairies roll, 

Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, 
And ridges stretched from pole to pole 

Heave till they crack their iron knuckles ! 

But Memory blushes at the sneer. 

And Honor turns with frown defiant. 
And Freedom, leaning on her spear, 

Laughs louder than the laughing giant : 
" An islet is a world," she said, 

" When glory with its dust has blended, 
And Britain keeps her noble dead 

Till earth and seas and skies are rended ! " 

Beneath each swinging forest-bough 

Some arm as stout in death reposes, — 
From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow 

Her valor's life-blood runs in roses ; 
Nay, let our brothers of the West 

Write smiling in their fiorid pages, 
One half her soil has walked the rest 

In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages ! 

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp. 

From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, 
The British oak with rooted grasp 

Her slender handful holds together ; 
With cliffs of white and bowers of green, 

And Ocean narrowing to caress her. 
And hills and threaded streams between, — 

Our little mother isle, God bless her ! 

In earth's broad temple where we stand. 

Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, 
We hold the missal in our hand. 

Bright with the lines our Mother taught us ; 
Where'er its blazoned page betrays 

The glistening links of gilded fetters, 
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays 

Her rubric stained in crimson letters ! 

Enough ! To speed a parting friend 
'Tis vain alike to speak and listen ; 

Yet stay, — these feeble accents blend 
With rays of light from eyes that glisten. 



Good by ! once more, — and kindly tell 
In words of peace the young world's story. 

And say, besides, we love too well 
Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



®o mn QTompanions. 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners 

Who sail this shore ! 
Ye patient, ye who labor 
Sitting at the sweeping oar, 
And see afar the flashing sea-gulls play 
On the free waters, and the glad bright day 
Twine with his hand the spray ! 

From out your dreariness. 
From your heart weariness, 
I speak, for 1 am yours 
On these gray shores. 

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners ! 

What cliffs they are 
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts. 
And sadly round us bar ; 
I do imagine that the free clouds play 
Above those eminent heights ; that somewhere Day 
Rides his triumphant way. 

And hath secure dominion 
Over our stern oblivion; 
But see no path thereout 
To free from doubt. 

William Ellert Changing. 



Christmas is here ; 
Winds whistle shrill. 
Icy and chill. 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without. 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom : 
Night birds are we ; 



182 

1 


POEMS OF FlilEyDSniP. 




Hero we carouse. 






Singing, like tliem. 


tUliiU migl)t be Done. 




Perched round the stem 






Of the iollv old tree. 


What niiirht be done if men were wise — 




• 


What gloriiHis deeds, my suffering brother, 




Here let us sport. 


Would they unite 




Boys, as we sit — 


In love and right, 




Laughter and wit 


And cease their scorn of one another ? 




Flashing so free. 
Life is but short ; 


Oppression's heart might Ik? imbued 

With kindling drops of loving-kindness : 




When we are gone. 


C^ A Cj ' 




Let them sing on, 


And knowledge pour, 
From shore to shore. 




Round the old tree. 








Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 




Evenings we knew. 


All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, 




Happy Jis this; 


All vice and crime, might die together ; 




Faces we miss. 


And wine and corn, 




Pleasant to see. 


To each man born, 




Kind hearts and tnie. 


Be free as warmth in summer weather. 




Gentle and just. 






Peace to your dust ! 


The meanest wretch that ever trod. 




We sing round the tree. 


The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 
Might stand erect 




Care, like a dun. 


In self -res jiect. 




Lurks at the gate: 


And share the teeming world to-morrow. 




Let the dog wait ; 






Hapjiy we'll Ix* I 


What might be done ? This might l)e done. 




Drink, every one; 


And more than this, my suffering brother — 




Pile up (he cojUs ; 


More tiian the t(jngue 




Fill the red Ij<iw1s, 


E'er said or sung. 




Round the old tree ! 


If men were wise and loved each other. 

Charles Mackat. 




Drain we the etip. 






Friend, art afraid ? 






Spirits are laid 






I 

In the Red Sea. 


'^ulb tang Gnne. 




Mantle it up : 


Should auld ac«|uaintance be forgot, 




Kiii|)ty it yet ; 


And never bn>uirht to min'? 




lift us forget. 


Should auld ac<iuaintanfe l)e forgot, 




Round the old tree ! 


1 C ' 

And (lays o' lang syne ? 








Sorrows bcg«)ne ! 


For a III f J fdnff i<i/nfi, tut/ dear. 




Tiife and its ills. 


Fitr auld Jnuij st/ne. 




I)tjns ami tiirir hills. 


Wt'ff t<ik a nip ()' kindness yet. 




Bid we to flee. 


For (iiifd Inn;/ .si/nf .' 




Conic with the da\m. 






Hhiewlfvil sprite ; 


We twa hae run al)out the braes, i 




Ler.ve us to-.ni.Tht, 


And pu'd the ijowans fine; 1 




Round the old tree! 


But we've wandered monv a wearv foot I 




V.*Il.LrAM MaKCPEACE TllACKEnAT. 


Sin nuld lang tayno. m 



CHRISTMAS. 183 


We twa hae paidFt i' the burn 


Rank misers now do sparing shun — 


Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 


Their hall of music soundeth ; 


But seas between us braid hae roared 


And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, 


Sin auld lang syne. 


So all things there aboundeth. 




The country folks themselves advance, 


And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 


With crowdy-muttons out of France ; 


And gie's a hand o' thine ; 


And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance. 


And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught 


And all the town be merry. 


For auld lang syne ! 






Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn. 


And surely ye 11 be your pint-stowp, 


And all his best apparel : 


And surely I'll be mine ; 


Brisk NeU hath bought a ruff of lawn 


And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 


With dropping of the barrel. 


For auld lang syne. 


And those that hardly all the year 


For auld lang syne, my dear, 


Had bread to eat, or rags to wear, 


For auld lang syne, 


Will have both clothes and dainty fare, 


We 11 talc a cup o' kindness yet, 


And all the day be merry. 


For auld lang syne I 




EOBEET BTTENS. 


Now poor men to the justices 




With capons make their errants ; 




And if they hap to fail of these, 


Cl)risttnas. 


They plague them with their warrants : 




But now they feed them with good cheer, 


So now is come our joj-ful'st feast ; 


And what they want they take in beer ; 


Let every man be jolly ; 


For Christmas comes but once a year, 


Each room with ivy-leaves is drest, 


And then they shall be merry. 


And every post with holly. 




Though some churls at our mirth repine, 


Good farmers in the country nurse 


Round your foreheads garlands twine, 


The poor, that else were undone ; 


Drown sorrow in a cup of wine. 


Some landlords spend their money worse, 


And let us all be merry. 


On lust and pride at London. 




There the roysters they do play. 


Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke. 


Drab and dice their lands away, 


And Christmas blocks are burning ; 


Which may be ours another day. 


Their ovens they with baked meat choke, 


And therefore let's be merry. 


And all their spits are turning. 




Without the door let sorrow lie ; 


The client now his suit forbears ; 


And if for cold it hap to die, 


The prisoner's heart is eased ; 


We '11 bury 't in a Christmas pie. 


The debtor drinks away his cares, 


And evermore be merry. 


And for the time is pleased. 




Though others' purses be more fat. 


Now every lad is wond'rous trim, 


Wliy should we pine or grieve at that % 


And no man minds his labor ; 


Hang sorrow ! Care will kill a cat. 


Our lasses have provided them 


And therefore let's be merry. 


A bagpipe and a tabor ; 




Young men and maids, and girls and boys, 


Hark ! now the wags abroad do call 


Give life to one another's joys ; 


Each other forth to rambling ; 


And you anon shall by their noise 


Anon you'll see them in the hall, 


Perceive that they are merry. 


For nuts and apples scrambling. 

1 



184 



POEMS OF FBIEynSHIP. 



Hark I liow the roofs with laughter sound ! 
Anon they'll think the house goes round, 
For they the cellar's depths have found, 
And there they will be merry. 

The wenches with their wassail bowls 

AV)out the streets are singing : 
The lx)ys are come to catch the owls 

The wild mare in is bringing, 
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box ; 
And to the dealing of the ox 
Our honest neighbors come ])y flocks. 

And here they will be merry. 

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, 
Aud mate with everybody ; 



The honest now may play the knave, 
And wise men play the noddy. 
Some youths will now a mumming go, 
Some others play at Rowland-bo, 
And twenty other game boys mo. 
Because they will be merry. 

Then wherefore, in these merry days, 
Should we, I pray, be duller f 

No. let us sing some roundelays, 
To make our mirth the fuller ; 

And, while we thus inspired sing. 

Let all the streets with echoes ring ; 

Woods and hills and every thing. 
Bear witness we are merry I 

(jiEOUUE WlTUEO. 



{ 



PART IT. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Love ? I will toll thee what it is to love ! 

It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, 
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; 

Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine. 

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary- of bliss. 

Above, the stars in cloudless beautj^ shine ; 
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss ; 
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. 



Yes. this is Love, the steadfast and the true, 

The immortal glory which hath never set ; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew : 

Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet ! 

O ! who but can recall the eve they met, 
To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow ? 

While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, 
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, 
And all was rapture then which is but memory now ! 

Charles Swain. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



^talanta's HXacc. 

Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, 
Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day ; 
But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, 
Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay. 
Within a vale he called his hounds away, 
Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling 
About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring. 

But when they ended, still awhile he stood, 
And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear. 
And all the day-long noises of the wood, 
And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year 
His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear, 
And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, 
To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 

Then smiling did he turn to leave the place. 
But with his first step some new fleeting thought 
A shadow cast across his sunburnt face ; 
1 think the golden net that April brought 
From some warm world his wavering soul had 

caught ; 
For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go 
Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. 

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 
The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done ; 
Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast. 
Then, turning round to see what place was won, 
With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun. 
And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows 

brown 
Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' town. 



So thitherward he turned, and on each side 
The folk were busy on the teeming land. 
And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, 
Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand, 
And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand 
Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear. 
Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. 

Merry it was : about him sung the birds. 
The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry 

road. 
The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned 

herds 
Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed ; 
While from the freshness of his blue abode. 
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget. 
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. 

Through such fair things unto the gates he 

came. 
And found them open, as though peace were 

there ; 
Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, 
He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare, 
Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare ; 
But pressing on, and going more hastily. 
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 

Following the last of these, he still pressed on. 
Until an open space he came unto, 
Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won. 
For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. 
And now our hunter looked for something new. 
Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled 
The high seats were, with eager people filled. 



188 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



There with the others to a seat he gat, 
Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
'Neath which in fair array King Schopneus sat 
Upon his throne with councillors thereby : 
And underneath this well-wrought seat and high, 
lie siiw a golden image of the sun, 
A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. 

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet 
Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; 
Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 
Made ready even now his horn to wind, 
By whom a huge man held a sword, int wined 
With yellow flowers; these stood a little space 
From off the altar, nigh the starting-place. 

And there two runners did the sign abide 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair. 
Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often 

tried 
In |)laces where no man his strength may spare ; 
Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 
A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall he con- 
tend f 
A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
When in the woods she lists her bow to 1)end, 
Too fair for one to look on and be glad. 
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, 
If he must still l^ehold her from afar; 
Too fair to let the world live free from war. 

She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; 
Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, 
Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set 
Calm and unmoved as thougli no soul were near. 
But her f(je tremble<l as a man in fear, 
Nor from her loveliness one m<jment turned 
His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 

Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's 
clang 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
Then from light feet a spurt of dust there spning, 
And swiftly were tliey running si«le by side; 
But silent did the thronging f»»lk abi<le 
Until the turning-post was reached at hist. 
And round al)out it still abreast they passed. 



But when the people saw how close they ran, 
When half-way to the starting-point they were, 
A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
Unto the very end of all his fear ; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground could 

feel. 
And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart "gan steal. 

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound 
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard 
His flushed and eager face ho turned annind, 
And even then he felt her past him l)ound 
Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there 
Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

There stood she breathing like a little child 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
For no victorious joy her red lips smiled. 
Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. 
Though some divine thought softened all her face 
As once more rang the trumpet through the place. 

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. 
One moment gazed upon her piteously. 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; 
And, changed like one who knows his time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 
He knelt V>efore the bearer of the sword; 

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. 
Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded 

place 
Was silence now, and midst of it the maid 
Went by the i)oor wretch at a gentle pace. 
And he to hers ui»turn('d his sad white lace; 
Nor did his eyes U'liold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 



So was the pageant ended, and all folk 
Talking of this and that familiar thing 
In little groups from that sml concourse V>roke, 
Ffir now the shrill bats were upon the wing. 
And soon dark night would slay the evening, 
And in dark gardens siing the nightingale 
Her little-heeded, oft-rejH*ated tale. 



ATALAXTA'S RACE. 



189 



And with the last of all the hunter went, 
Who, wondering at the stran^ sight he had seen, 
Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, 
Both why the vanquished man so slain had been, 
And if the maiden were an earthly queen. 
Or rather what much more she seemed to be, 
No sharer in the world's mortality, 

" Stranger," said he, " I pray she soan may die. 
Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one ! 
King Schoeneus' daughter is she Terily, 
Wlio when her eyes first looked upon the sun 
Was fain to end her life but new begun, 
For he had vowed to leave but men alone 
Sprung from his loins when he from earth was 
gone. 

" Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood. 
And let wild things deal with her as they might. 
But this being done, some cruel god thought good 
To save her beauty in the world's despite : 
Folk say that her. so delicate and white 
As now she is, a rough, root-grubbing bear 
Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. 

" In com'se of time the woodfolk slew her nurse, 
And to their rude abode the youngling brought, 
And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse, 
Who grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, '* 
But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction 

wrought, 
Xor spared two shaggy centaiu' kings to slay, 
To whom her body seemed an easy prey. 

" So to tills city, led by fate, she came 
Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell, 
King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim, 
Xor otherwhere since that day doth she dwell, 
Sending too many a noble soul to hell. 
What I thine eyes glisten I what then, thinkest 

thou 
Her shining head unto the yoke to bow ? 

" Listen, my son, and love some other maid, 
For she the saffron gown will never wear, 
And on no flower-stre^Ti couch shall she be laid, 
Xor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear : 
Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear, 
Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly. 
Thou still may'st woo her ere thou comest to die. 



" Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead ; 
For, fearing as I deem the sea-bom one. 
The maid has vowed e^en such a man to wed 
, As in the course her swift feet can outrun, 
! But whoso fails herein, his days are done : 
He came the nighest that was slain to-day, 
Although with him I deem she did but play. 

" Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 
To those that long to win her loveliness ; 
Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there lives 
Gentler than she, of beauty little less. 
Whose swimming eyes thy losing words shall 

bless, 
When in some garden, knee set close to knee, 
Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to 

thee." 



So to the hunter spake that ancient man, 
And left him for his own home presently : 
But he tuiTied round, and through the moonlight wan 
Reached the thick wood, and there 't wixt tree and tree 
Distraught he passed the long night feverishly, 
'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose 
To wage hot war against his speechless foes. 

There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow, 
As panting down the broad green glades he flew. 
There by his horn the Dryads well might know 
His thrust against the bear's heart had been true. 
And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew, 
But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, 
For none the more his restlessness was spent. 

So wandering, he to Argive cities came, 
And in the lists with valiant men he stood, 
And by great deeds he won him praise and fame. 
And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood ; 
But none of all these things, or life, seemed good 
L'nto his heart, where still unsatisfied 
A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. 

Therefore it happed when but a month had gone 
Since he had left King Schoeneus' city old. 
In hunting-gear again, again alone 
The forest-bordered meads did he behold, 
Where still mid thoughts of August's quivering 

gold 
Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust 
Of faint October's purple-foaming must. 



190 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And once again he passed the peaceful gate, 
VVhile to his beating heart his lips did lie, 
That, owning not victorious love and fate, 
Said, half aloud. *• And here too must I try, 
To win of alien men the mastery, 
And gather for my head fresh meed of fame. 
And cast new glory on ray fathers name.'' 

In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first 
Folk said to him, " And art thou come to see 
That which still makes our city's name accurst 
Among all mothers for its cruelty? 
Then know indeed that fate is good to thee, 
Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run." 

So on the morrow with no curious eyes 
As once he did, that piteous sight he saw. 
Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 
As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan 

draw, 
Xor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe. 
Too full the pain of longing filled his heart 
For fear or wonder there to have a part. 

But 0, how long the night was ere it went ! 
How long it wjis before the dawn begun 
Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent 
That not in darkness should the world lie done ! 
And then, and then, how long before the sun 
Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth ! 

And long it seemed that in the market-place 
He stood and .saw the chaffering f()lk go by. 
Ere from the ivory throne King Schceneus' face 
Looked down upon the murnnir royally. 
But then came trembling that the time was nigh 
When he midst pitying looks his love must 

claim, 
And jeering voices must salute his name. 

But as the throng he pierced to gain the 
throne. 
His alien face distraught and anxious told 
What hopeless errand he was bound iipon. 
And, each to each, folk whispered to In-hold 
His gotUike liml)s; nay, and one woman old 
As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve 
And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. 



For sidling up she said, "Canst thou live twice. 
Fair son ? canst thou have joyful youth again. 
That thus thou goest to the sacrifice, 
Thyself the victim f nay then, all in vain 
Thy mother bore her longing and her pain. 
And one more maiden on the earth must dwell 
Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. 

'' fool, thou knowest not the compact then 
That with the three-formed goddess she has made 
To keep her from the loving lips of men. 
And in no saflfron gown to \^Q arrayed. 
And therewithal with glory to be paid. 
And love of her the moonlit river sees 
White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. 

"Come back, and I myself will pray for thee 
Unto the sea-born framer of delights. 
To give thee her who on the earth may be 
The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights, 
To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights 
The flame that doth thy youtiiful heart con- 
sume : 
Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb.'' 

How should he listen to her earnest speech f 
Words, such as he not once or twice had said 
Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach 
The firm abode of that sad hard i head — 
He turned about, and through tiie marketstead 
Swiftly he passed, until before the throne 
In the cleared space he stood at last alone. 

Then said the King, "Stranger, what dost thou 
here f 
Have any of my folk done ill to theef 
Or art thou of the forest men in fearf 
Or art thou of the sjid fraternity 
Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be, 
Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss 
The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis f" 

"0 King," he said, "thou sayest the word in- 
deed : 
Nor will I quit the strife till I have won 
My sweet delight, or death to end my need. 
And know tiiat 1 am called Milanii>n, 
Of King Amphidamas the well-loved S4")n: 
So fear not that to thy old name, O King, 
Much loss or shame my victory will bring." 



ATALANTA'S HACK 



191 



" Xay, Prince," said Schoeneus, " welcome to this 
land 
Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try 
Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand; 
Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. 
But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, 
And at my door lay down thy luckless head, 
Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 

" Whose curses even now my heart doth fear ? 
Lo, I am old, and know what life can be, 
And what a bitter thing is death anear. 
Son ! be wise, and hearken imto me, 
And if no other can be dear to thee, 
At least as now, yet is the world full wide, 
And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide : 

" But if thou losest life, then all is lost." 
"Nay, King," Milanion said, "thy words are vain. 
Doubt not that 1 have counted well the cost. 
But say, on what day will thou that I gain 
Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain ? 
Right glad were I if it could be to-day, 
And all my doubts at rest forever lay." 

" Nay," said King Schoeneus, " thus it shall not be, 
But rather shalt thou let a month go by, 
And weary with thy prayers for victory 
What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. 
. So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die : 
And with my good-will wouldst thou have the maid, 
For of the equal gods 1 grow afraid. 

" And until then, Prince, be thou my guest, 
And all these troiiblous things awhile forget." 
" Nay," said he, " couldst thou give my soul good 

rest. 
And on mine head a sleepy garland set. 
Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net. 
Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word ; 
But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. 

" Yet will I do what son of man may do, 
And promise all the gods may most desire, 
That to myself I may at least be true ; 
And on that day my heart and limbs so tire. 
With utmost strain and measureless desire. 
That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
Wlien in the sunlight round that sword shall 
sweep." 



He went with that, nor any^vhere would bide, 
But unto xVrgos restlessly did wend ; 
And there, as one who lays all hope aside. 
Because the leech has said his life must end. 
Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend, 
And took his way unto the restless sea. 
For there he deemed his rest and help might be. 



Upox the shore of Argolis there stands 
A temple to the goddess that he sought. 
That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, 
Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought. 
Though to no homestead there the sheaves are 

brought, 
No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, 
Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. 

Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees. 
Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, 
And entering, hear the washing of the seas 
That twice a day rise high above the base. 
And with the southwest urging them, embrace 
The marble feet of her that standeth there, 
That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. 

Small is the fane through which the sea- wind 
sings 
About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white, 
But hung around are many precious things. 
The gifts of those who, longing for delight, 
Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, 
And in return have taken at her hands 
The living treasures of the G-recian lands. 

And thither now has come Milanion, 
And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes 
Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, 
Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, 
And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise 
Above the deeds of foolish living things, 
And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 

And now before the sea-born one he stands. 
By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, ' 
And while the incense trickles from his hands, 
And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft. 
Thus doth he pray to her : '' Thou, who oft 
Hast holpen man and maid in their distress. 
Despise me not for this my wretchedness ! 



192 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" O rrodtless. among us who dwell lielow. 
Kings and great men, great for a little while. 
Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 
Nor hate the hearts that love them without 

guile : 
Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile 
A vain device of him who set thee here, 
An empty dream of some artificer? 

" great one, some men love, and are ashamed ; 
Some men are weary of the bonds of love : 
Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed. 
That from thy toils their lives they cannot move. 
And mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. 
Alas I O goddess, if thou slayest me. 
What new immortal can I serve but thee ? 

"Think then, will it l)ring honor to thy head 
If folk say, * Everything aside he cast 
And to all fame and honor was he dead, 
And to his one hope now is dead at last, 
Since all unholpen he is gone and past : 
Ah, the gods love not man. for certainly. 
He to his helper did not cease to cry.' 

"Xay, but thou wilt help: they who died l>efore 
Not single-hearted as I deem came here. 
Therefore unt hanked they laid their gifts Ix^fore 
Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear. 
Lest in their eyes their true thought might ap- 

l)ear, 
Who souglit to be the lords of that fair town. 
Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 

"O t^ueen, thou knowest T pray not for this: 
O, set us down together in some place 
Where not a voice can break our heaven of 

bliss, 
Where naught but rocks and I can see her face. 
Softening iK'Ueath the marvel of thy grace. 
Where not a foot our vanishe«l ste|)s can track, — 
The golden age, the golden age come l)ack ! 

"O fairest, hear me now, who do thy will. 
Plead for thy rel)el that she l)e not slain. 
But live and love and Ix? thy serx'ant still : 
Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, 
And thus twf> long-<niduring servants gain. 
An easy thing this is to <lo for me. 
What need of mv vain words to wear>* thee I 



" But none the less this place will I not leave 
Until I needs must go my death to meet, 
Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 
That in great joy we twain may one day greet 
Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. 
Such as we deem tjiee. fair beyond all words, 
Victorious o'er our servants and our lords." 

Then from the altar back a space he drew, 
But from the Queen turned not his face away, 
But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue 
That arched the sky, at ending of the day, 
Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray. 
And clear. Init low. the nigh-ebbed windless sea 
In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. 

And there he stood when all the sun was down, 
Nor had he moved when the dim golden light, 
Like the far lustre of a godlike town. 
Had left the world to seeming hopeless night. 
Nor would he move the more when wan moon- 
light 
Streamed through the pillars for a little while. 
And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. 

Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea 
As step by step it set the wrack a-swim. 
The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 
Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb 
The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn. 
And naught the doubled stillness of the fano 
Wiien they were gone and all was hushed again. 

But when the waves had touched the marble 
base, 
And steps the fish swim over twice a day, 
The dawn Ix'held him sunken in his place 
Upon the floor ; and sleeping there he lay, 
Not heeding aught the little jets of spray 
The roughened sen brought nigh, across him cast. 
For as one dead all thought from him had pjissed. 

Yet long Ix'fore the sun had showed his head. 
Long ere the varied hangings on the wall 
Had gained once more their blue and green and 

red. 
He ros«^ as one some well-known s:ign doth call 
When war upon the city's gates doth fall. 
And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep. 
He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 



ATALANTA'S BACK 



193 



Then he turned round ; not for the sea-gull's cry 
That wheeled above the temple in his flight, 
Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly 
Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, 
But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight 
Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and 

wan, 
And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. 

Now a faint light lit up the southern sky. 
Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray. 
But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh. 
Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay 
As toward the temple still it took its way, 
And still grew greater, till Milanion 
Saw naught for dazzling light that round him 
shone. 

But as he staggered with his arms outspread, 
Delicious unnamed odors breathed around. 
For languid happiness he bowed his head, 
And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground. 
Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found 
To give him reason for that happiness. 
Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. 

At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see 
Through happy tears the goddess face to face 
With that faint image of Divinity, 
Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless 

grace 
Until that morn so gladdened all the place ; 
Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, 
And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. 

But through the stillness he her voice could hear 
Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, 
That said, " Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear ? 
I am not hard to those who love me well ; 
List to what I a second time will tell. 
And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save 
The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 

" See, by my feet three golden apples lie — 
Such fruit among the heavy roses falls. 
Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully 
Store up within the best loved of my walls. 
Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls 
Above my unseen head, and faint and light 
The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. 



'' And note, that these are not alone most fair 
With heavenly gold, but longing strange they 

bring 
Unto the hearts of men, who will not care. 
Beholding these, for any once-loved thing 
Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. 
And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid 
By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 

" For bearing these within a scrip with thee. 
When first she heads thee from the starting-place, 
Cast down the first one for her eyes to see. 
And when she turns aside make on apace, 
And if again she heads thee in the race 
Spare not the other two to cast aside 
If she not long enough behind will bide. 

" Farewell, and w^hen has come the happy time 
That she Diana's raiment must unbind 
And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's 

clime. 
And thou with eager arms about her twined 
Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, 
Surely, trembler, thou shalt scarcely then 
Forget the helper of unhappy men." 

Milanion raised his head at this last word, 
For now so soft and kind she seemed to be. 
No longer of her Godhead was he feared ; 
Too late he looked, for nothing could he see 
But the white image glimmering doubtfully 
In the departing twilight cold and gray. 
And those three apples on the steps that lay. . 

These then he caught up quivering with de- 
light, 
Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream. 
And though aweary with the watchful night. 
And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem 
He could not sleep ; but yet the first sunbeam 
That smote the fane aross the heaving deep 
Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. 

But little ere the noontide did he rise, 
And why he felt so happy scarce could tell 
Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. 
Then leaving the fair place where this befell. 
Oft he looked back as one who loved it well. 
Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend 
To bring all things unto a happy end. 



194 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Now has; the lingering mouth at hist gone by, 
Again are all folk round the running-place, 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantry 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race. 
For now, l)eheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 

But yet what change is this that holds the 
maid i 
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 
Some happy hope of help and victory? 
The others seemed to say, " We come to die. 
Look down upon us for a little while. 
That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." 

But he — what look of mastery was this 
He cast on her f why were his lips so red ? 
Why was his face so flushed with happiness? 
So looks not one who deems himself but dead. 
E'en if to death he bows a willing head : 
So rather l(M)ks a god well pleju^ed to find 
Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 

Why must she drop her lids l)efore his gaze. 
And even as she casts adown her eyes 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
And wish that she were clad in other guise f 
Why must the nu'm«)ry to her heart arise 
Uf things unnoticed when they first were heard. 
•Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word ? 

What makes these longings, vague, without a 

name. 
And this vain pity never felt liefore. 
This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. 
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, 
Tliese doubts that grow each minute more and 

moref 
Why does she tremble jis the time grows near. 
Ami weak defeat and woful victory feart 

Mat while she seemed to hear her l>eating heart, 
Aljove their heads the trumj>et blast rang out. 
And forth they sprang; and she must play her 

part ; 
Tln'ii flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, 
Though, slackening once, she turned her head 
about, 



But then she cried aloud and faster tied 
Than e'er before, and all men deemed him 
dead. 

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. 
And thence what seemed a ray of light there 

flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; 
Then trembling she her feet together drew, 
And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
To have the toy ; some god she thought had 

given 
That gift to her. to make of earth a heaven. 

Then from the course with eager steps she 

ran. 
And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
But when she turned again, the great-limbed 

man 
Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
And, mindful of her glory- waxing cold. 
Sprang up and followed him in hot pui*suit. 
Though with one hand she touched the golden 

fruit. 

Note. too. the bow that she was wont to bear 
She laid lu^ide to grasp the glittering })rize, 
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair 
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 
Unnoticed, as amidst the' peojile's cries 
She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
\Mio now the turning-p<^st had wellnigh won. 

But as he set his mighty hand on it 
White fingers underneath his own wore laid. 
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did 

flit: 
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid. 
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and nuule no 

stay. 
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around. 
Now far aheml the Argive could she see. 
And in her garment's hem one hand she wound 
To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
Sped o'er the coun*e, and little doubt had she 
To win the day, though now but scanty spaoo 
Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. 



i 



SYR CAULINE. 



195 



Short was the way unto such winged feet, 
Quickly she gained upon him, till at last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet. 
And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil. 
That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, 
Once more, an unblest woful victory — 
And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow dim *? 
Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find. 
Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, 
A strong man's arms about her body twined. . 
Xor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. 
So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss : 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. 
She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 



Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts ! 
Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 
And scatter incense to appease the ghosts 
Of those who died here by their own award. 
Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, 
And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, 
And did a deed forever to be sung. 

Here are the gathered folk, make no delay. 
Open King Schceneus' well filled-treasury, 
Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day. 
The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery. 
Gold chains, and unguents brought from over 

sea, 
The saffron gown the old Phoenician brought. 
Within the temple of the Goddess wrought. 

O ye, damsels, who shall never see 
Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, 
Returning from another victory. 
In some cool bower do all that now is due ! 
Since she in token of her service new 
Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow. 
Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. 

William Morris. 



Snr Pauline. 

THE FIRST PART. 

In Ireland, ferr over the sea. 
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge ; 

And with him a yong and comlye knighte, 
Men call him Syr Cauline. 

The kinge had a ladye to his daughter. 

In f ashyon she hath no peere ; 
And princely wightes that ladye wooed 

To be theyr wedded fere. 

Syr Cauline loveth her best of all. 

But nothing durst he saye, 
Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, 

But deerlye he lovde this may. 

Till on a daye it so beffell 

Great dill to him was dight ; 
The mayden's love removde his mind, 

To care-bed went the knighte. 

One while he spred his armes him fro. 

One while he spred them nye : 
" And aye ! but I winne that ladye's love, 

For dole now I mun dye." 

And whan our parish-masse was done, 

Our kinge was bowne to dyne : 
He sayes, " Where is Syr Cauline, 

That is wont to serve the wyne ? " 

Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte. 
And fast his handes gan wringe : 

" Syr Cauline is sicke, and like to dye, 
Without a good leechinge." 

" Fetche me downe my daughter deere. 

She is a leeche fulle fine ; 
Goe take him doughe and the baken bread. 
And serve him with the wyne soe red : 

Lothe I were him to tine." 

Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes. 

Her may dens follow yng nye : 
" Oh well, " she sa>i;h, " how doth my lord ? " 

" Oh sicke, thou fayr ladye." 



106 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



•• Xowe ryse up wight lye, man. for shame; 

Never lye soe cowardlee : 
For it is told in my father's halle 

You dye for love of mee." 

" FajTe ladye. it is for your love 

That all this dill I drye : 
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, 
Then were I brou<?ht from Ijjile to blisse, 

No len^r wold I lye."' 

'*Syr knigrhte. my father is a kinge, 

I am his onlye heire : 
Alas I and well you knowe. s>t knighte, 

I never can he youre fere." 

*' O ladye. thou art a kinge's daughter, 

And I am not t hy peere : 
But let me doe some deedes of armes, 

To be your bacheleere." 

" Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe. 

My bacheleere to bee 
(But ever and aye my heart wold rue, 

Giflf harm should happe to thee.) 

" Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, 

Upon the mores brodinge ; 
And dare yr. syr knighte. wake there all nighte, 

Untill the fayre niorninge / 

'•For the Eldridge knighte. so mickle of mighte. 

Will examine you befonie : 
And nevi'r man bare life awaye. 

But he did him scath and scorne. 

"That knighte he is a fonl fiayniin. 

And largt- uf limb and bone; 
And but if heaven may bo thy si>oede, 

Thy life it is but gone." 

" Nowo on the Eldridge hillos lie walke, 

For thy sake, fair ladie : 
And He either bring yaxx a ready token, 

Or Ho n«^ver more you see." 

The lady is gone to her own chaumbere, 

Ib-r njaydrns followin<; bright : 
Syr Caulinc lop«- from earo-lM'd soone, 
And to the Ehlridgi- hills is gone. 

For to walke there all night. 



Unto midnight, that the moone did rise. 

He walked up and downe ; 
Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe 

Over the bents soe browne ; 
Quoth hee, " If cri'ance come till my heart, 

1 am farre from any good towne.'' 

And soone he spyde on the mores so broad 

A furyous wight and fell ; 
A ladye bright his brydle led, 

Clad in a fayre kyrtell : 

And soe fast he called on Syr Cauline, 

" man, I rede thee flye, 
For ])ut if cryance come till thy heart, 

1 weene but thou mun dye." 

He sayth, " No cryance comes till my heart, 

Xor, in faith. I wyll not flee; 
For, cause thou minged not Christ before, 

The less me dreadeth thee." 

The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ; 

Syr Cauline bold ab<ide : 
Then either shooke his trustye speare. 
And the timljer these two children bare 

Soe soone in sunder slode. 

Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, 

And layden on full faste, 
Till helmc and hawl)erke, mail and sheelde, 

They all were well-nighe brast. 

The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, 

And stiflfe in stower did stande; 
But Syr Cauline with an aukeward stroke 

lie smote off his right-han<l : 
That soone he, with j)aino. and lacke of blond, 

Fell downe on that lay-land. 

Then up Syr Cauline lift his brande 

All over his hea<l so hye : 
"And here 1 swearr by the holy roode, 

Xowe, cavtiffe, thou shalt dve." 

Tlien up and n\mv that ladye brighte, 

Fast(> wringing of her hande : 
" For the mayden's love, that most you love, 

Withold that deadlve brande: 



SYR CAULINE. 



197 



" For the mavden's love, that most you love, 

Xow smyte no more I praye ; 
And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, 

He shall thy hests obaye." 

" Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, 

And here on this lay-land, 
That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye, 

And therto plight thy hand : 

" And that thou never on Eldridge hill come 

To sporte, gamon, or playe ; 
And that thou here give up thy armes 

Until thy dying daye." 

The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes, 
With manv a sorrowf ulle sisrhe : 

And sware to obey Syr Cauline's hest, 
Till the tyme that he shold dye. 

And he then up, and the Eldridge knighte 

Sett him in his saddle anone : 
And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye, 

To theyr castle are they gone. 

Then he tooke up the bloudy hand, 

That was so large of bone, 
And on it he founde five ringes of gold, 

Of knightes that had be slone. 

Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde, 

As hard as any fiint ; 
And he tooke off those ringes five, 

As bright as fyre and brent. 

Home then pricked Syr Cauline, 

As light as leaf e on tree ; 
I-wys he neither stint ne blanne. 

Till he his ladye see. 

Then downe he knelt upon his knee 

Before that lady gay : 
" ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills ; 

These tokens I bring away." 

" Xow welcome, welcome, Syr Cauline, 

Thrice welcome unto mee, 
For now I perceive thou art a true knighte, 

Of valour bolde and free." 



" ladye, I am thy own true knighte, 

Thy hests for to obaye ; 
And mought I hope to winne thy love ! " 

Xo more his tonge colde say. 

The ladye blushed scarlette redde. 

And fette a gentill sighe : 
" Alas I s}T knight, how may this bee. 

For my degree 's soe highe ? 

" But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth, 

To be my bachelere, 
lie promise, if thee I may not wedde, 

I will have none other fere." 

Then shee held forthe her liley-white hand 

Towards that knighte so free ; 
He gave to it one gentill kisse. 
His heart was brought from bale to blisse. 

The teares sterte from his ee. 

" But keep my counsayl, Syr Cauline, 

Xe let no man it knowe ; 
For, and ever my father sholde it ken, 

I wot he wolde us sloe." 

From that daye forthe. that ladye fayre 

Lovde Syi* Cauline the knighte ; 
From that daye forthe, he only joyde 

Whan shee was in his sight. 

Yea, and oftentimes they mette 

Within a fayre arboure. 
Where they, in love and sweet daliaunce, 

Past manye a pleasaunt houre. 

THE SECOND PART. 

EvERYE white will have its blacke, 

And everye sweete its sowre : 
This founde the ladye Christabelle 

In an untimely howre. 

For so it befell e, as S>t Cauline 

Was with that ladye faire, 
The kinge. her father, walked forthe 

To take the evenyng aire : 

And into the arboure as he went 

To rest his wearye feet, 
He found his daughter and Syr Cauline 

There sette in daliaunce sweet. 



198 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The kinge hee sterted forthe, I-wys, 

And an an^rr}'^ "^^r* ^^^ hee : 
" Xowe, traytoure. thou shalt hange or drawe, 
And rewe shall thy ladie." 

Then forthe Syr Cauline he was ledde, 
And throwne in dungeon deepe ; 

And the ladye into a towre so hye, 
There left to wayle and weepe. 

Tiie queene she was Syr Cau line's friend. 

And to the kinge siiyd shee : 
*• I pray you save Syr Cauline's life. 

And let him banisht bee." 

" Now, dame, that trajtoure shall \)Q sent 

Across the salt-sea fome; 
But here I will make thee a band. 
If ever he corae within this land, 

A foule deathe is his doome." 

All woe-begone was that gentil knight 

To pai'te from his ladye; 
And many a time he sighed sore,- 

And cast a wistfulle eye : 
'• Faire Christal)elle. from thee to parte, 

Farre levi-r had I dye." 

Faire Christabelle. that ladye bright, 

Wius had forthe of the towre; 
l)Ut ever shee dr«^)peth in her minde. 
As nipt by an un;jenth' winde 

Doth some faire liley flowre. 

And ever shee do(h lament and weepjo. 

To tint her lover s^w : 
"Syr Cauline, thou Iitth> think'st on mee. 

But I will still be true." 

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke. 

And lorde of hiirh (h'lrrt'o. 
Did sue to that fayn* ladye of love; 

But never shee w<»lde them neo. 

Wlien manye a daye was past and gone, 

Ne comft'rtr slice colde finde. 
The kynge f»r«Kljiimed a tournfamcnt. 

To cheero his daiiirhter's min<l. 



And there came lords, and there came kuightes 

Fro manye a farre countrye. 
To break a spere for theyr ladye's love, 

Before that faire ladye. 

And many a ladye there was sette, 

In purple and in palle ; 
But faire Christabelle, soe woe-begone, 

Was the fa}Test of them all. 

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might, 

Before his ladye gaye ; 
But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, 

He wan the prize eche daye. 

His acton it was all of blacke, 

His hewlierke and his sheelde ; 
Xe noe man wist whence he did come. 
Ne noe jnan knewe where he did gone. 

When they came out the feelde. 

And now three days were prestlye past 

In feates of chivalrye. 
When lo ! upon the fourth mominge, 

A sorrowfulle sight they see; 

A hugye gyaunt stiffe and starke. 

All foule of limine and lere. 
Two goggling even, like fire farden, 

A mouthe from eare to eare. 

Before him came a dwarflfe full lowe. 

That waited on his knee; 
And at his backe five heads he bare, 

All wan and pale of blee. 

"Sir." <juoth the dwarffi-. and louted lowe, 

•' Behold that hend s(»ldainl 
Behold these heads I Ix'aR^ with me! 

They are kings which he hath slain. 

"Th«' Eldridge knighte is his own cousine. 
Whom a knighte of thine hath shent ; 

And hee is come to avenge his wrong ; 

And to thee, all thy knightes among, 
I)eftan(*e here hath st-nt. 

" But yette he will appea.«!e his wrath. 

Thy dauirhtcr's l<»v«' to winne; 
And. but th<»ti yccidf him that fa}Te maid. 

Thv halls and towers must br«'nne. 



SYR CAULIXE. 



199 



" ThT head, syr king, must goe with mee, 

Or else thy daughter dere ; 
Or else within these lists soe broad, 

Thou must finde him a peere." 

The kinge he turned him round aboute, • 

^Vnd in his heart was woe : 
" Is there never a knighte of my round table 

This matter will undergoe ? 

" Is there never a knighte amongst yee all 
Will fight for my daughter and mee ? 

Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan, 
Right fair his meede shall bee. 

" For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, 

And of my crowne be heyre ; 
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle 

To be his wedded fere." 

But every knighte of his round table 

Did stand both still and pale ; 
For, whenever they lookt on the grim soldan, 

It made their hearts to quail. 

All woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 

When she sawe no helpe was nye : 
She east her thought on her owne true-love, 

And the teares gusht from her eye. 

Up then sterte the stranger knighte, 

Sayd, •• Ladye. be not affrayd : 
He fight for thee with this gi'imme soldan, 

Thoughe he be unmacklye made. 

" And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde. 

That lyeth within thy bowre. 
I tniste in Christe for to slay this fiende, 

Thoughe he be stiff in stowre." 

" Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde," 
The kinge he cryde. " with speede : 

Xowe. heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ; 
My daughter is thy meede." 

The g}-aunt he stepped into the lists, 

And sayd. " Awaye, awaye I 
I sweare. as I am the hend soldan, 

Thou lettest me here aU dave." 



Then f oithe the stranger knighte he came, 

In his blacke armoure dight ; 
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe. 

" That this were my true knighte I " 

And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett 

Within the lists soe broad ; 
And now, with swordes soe sharpe of Steele, 

They gan to lay on load. 

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke 

That made him reele asyde ; 
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 

And thrice she deeply sighde. 

The soldan strucke a second stroke. 
And made the bloude to flowe ; 

All pale and wan was that ladye fayre. 
And thrice she wept for woe. 

The soldan strucke a third fell stroke. 

Which brought the knighte on his knee ; 
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, 



And she 



?hriekt loud shriekings three. 



The knighte he leapt upon his feete. 

All recklesse of the pain ; 
Quoth hee. •• But heaven be now my speede, 

Or else I shaU be slaine." 

He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, 

And spying a secrette part, 
He drave it into the soldan's syde. 

And pierced him to the heart. 

Then all the people gave a shoute, 
Whan they sawe the soldan f aUe ; 

The ladye wept, and thanked Christ 
That had reskewed her from thraU. 

And nowe the kinge, with all his barons, 

Rose uppe from offe his seate. 
And downe he stepped into the listes 

That curteous knighte to greete. 

But he. for payne and lacke of bloude, 

Was fallen into a swounde. 
And there. aU walteringe in his gore. 

Lay lifeless on the grounde. 



200 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Come dowiie, come downe, my daughter deare, 

Thou art a Iceche of skille ; 
Farre lever had 1 lose halfe my landes 

Than this good knighte sholde spilie." 

Downe then st^ppeth that fajTe ladye, 

To helpe him if she maye ; 
But when she did his beavere raise, 
" It is my life, my lord ! " she sayes, 

And shriekte and swound awaye. 

Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes, 

When he heard his ladye crye : 
" ladye, I am thine owne true love ; 

For thee I wisht to dye." 

Then giving her one partinge looke, 

He closed his eyes in death. 
Ere Christabelle, that ladye mUde, 

Begane to drawe her breath. 

But when she found her comelye knighte 

Indeed was dead and gone. 
She layde her pale, cold cheeke to his, 

And thus she made her moane : 

" Oh staye, my deare and onlye lord, 

For mee, thy faithfuUe fere ; 
'Tis meet that 1 shold followe thee, 

Who hast bought my love so deare." 

Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, 

And with a deep-fette sighe 

That burst her gentle heart in twajTie, 

Fayre Christabelle did dye. 

Anonymous. 



IJoiing I3cicliitn anb Gusic Pnc. 

In London wjis young Beichan lM)ni, 
lit' longed strange countries for to see; 

i»ul he was taen by a savage ]Moor, 
Who handled him ritriit cruellie; 

For he viewed the fiushions of that land : 
Their way of worship view«'<l he; 

But to Mahound, or Termagant. 
Would Hfichau never bend a knee. 



So in every shoulder they 've putten a bore ; 

In every bore they 've putten a tree ; 
And they have made him trail the wine 

And spices on his fair bodie. 

They've casten him in a dungeon deep. 
Where he could neither hear nor see; 

For seven years they kept him there, 
Till he for hunger 's like to die. 

This Moor he had but ae daughter. 
Her name was called Susie Pye ; 

And every day as she took the air. 
Near Beichan's prison she passed by. 

Oh so it fell, upon a day 

She heard young Beichan sadly sing : 
" My hounds they all go masterless ; 

My hawks they flee from tree to tree; 
My younger brother will heir my land ; 

Fair England again 1 '11 never see ! " 

All night long no rest she got. 

Young Beichan's song for thinking on : 
She's stown tlu' keys from her father's head. 

And to the prison strong is gone. 

And she has opened the prison doors, 

I wot she opened two or three. 
Ere she could come young Beichan at, 

lie was locked up so euriouslie. 

But when she came young Beichan before. 
Sore wond(>red he that may to see; 

He took her for some fair captive ; 

"Fair Lady, I pray, of what countrief" 

"Oh have ye any lands." she said. 

"Or caustics in your own countrie. 
That ve could give to a ladv fair, 

From prison strong to set you free!" 

"Near LoiKhui town 1 have a iiall, 
With other castles two or three; 

I '11 give them all to the laxly fair 
That out of prison will set me free." 

"Give me the truth of your right hand. 

The truth of it give unto me. 
That for seven years y<''ll no lady wed. 

Unless it be along with ine." 



YOUNG BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE. 



201 



" I '11 give thee the truth of my right hand, 

The truth of it I '11 freely gie, 
That for seven years I '11 stay unwed, 

For the kindness thou dost show to me." 

And she has bribed the proud warder 
Wi' miclde gold and white monie ; 

She 's gotten the keys of the prison strong, 
And she has set young Beichan free. 

She 's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake ; 

She 's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine ; 
She 's bidden him sometimes think on her 

That sae kindly freed him out of pine. 

She 's broken a ring from her finger, 
And to Beichan half of it gave she : 

" Keep it to mind you of that love 
The lady bore that set you free. 

" And set your foot on good ship-board. 
And haste ye back to your own countrie ; 

And before that seven years have an end. 
Come back again, love, and marry me." 

But long ere seven years had an end, 
She longed full sore her love to see ; 

For ever a voice within her breast 

Said, " Beichan has broke his vow to thee." 

So she 's set her foot on good ship-board, 
And turned her back on her own countrie. 

She sailed east, she sailed west, 

Till to fair England's shore she came ; 

Where a bonny shepherd she espied. 
Feeding his sheep upon the plain. 

" What news, what news, thou bonny shepherd I 
What news has thou to tell to me ? " 

" Such news I hear, ladie," he says, 
" The like was never in this countrie. 

" There is a wedding in yonder hall, 
Has lasted these thirty days and three ; 

Young Beichan will not bed with his bride. 
For love of one that 's yond the sea." 

She 's put her hand in her pocket, 
Gi'en him the gold and white monie ; 

" Here, take ye that, my bonny boy. 
For the good news thou tell'st to me." 



When she came to young Beichan's gate, 

She tirled softly at the pin ; 
So ready was the proud porter 

To open and let this lady in. 

"Is this young Beichan's hall," she said, 
" Or is that noble lord within 1 " 

" Yea, he 's in the hall among them all, 
And this is the day o' his weddin." 

" And has he wed anither love % 
And has he clean forgotten me I " 

And, sighin', said that gay ladie, 
" I wish I were in my own countrie." 

And she has taen her gay gold ring. 
That with her love she brake so free ; 

Says, " Gie him that, ye proud porter. 
And bid the bridegroom speak to me." 

When the porter came his lord before, 
He kneeled down low on his knee — 

" What aileth thee, my proud jDorter, 
Thou art so full of courtesie "? " 

" I 've been porter at your gates, 

It 's thirty long years now and three ; 

But there stands a lady at them now, 
The like o' her did I never see ; 

" For on every finger she has a ring, 
And on her mid finger she has three ; 

And as meickle gold aboon her brow 
As would buy an earldom to me." 

It 's out then spak the bride's mother, 
Aye and an angry woman was shee ; 

" Ye might have expected our bonny bride, 
And twa or three of our companie." 

" Oh hold your tongue, thou bride's mother 

Of all your folly let me be ; 
She 's ten times fairer nor the bride. 

And all that 's in your companie. 

" She begs one sheave of your white bread. 
But and a cup of your red wine ; 

And to remember the lady's love. 
That last relieved you out of pine." 



202 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



'• Oh well-a-day I ** said Beic-han then, 
" That I so soon have married thee ! 

For it can be none but Susie Pye, 
That sailed the sea for love of me." 

And quickly hied he down the stair ; 

Of fifteen steps he made but three ; 
lie's ta'en his bonny love in his arms, 

And kist, and kist her tenderlie. 

" Oh hae ye ta'en anither bride ? 

And hae ye quite forgotten me f 
And hae ye quite forgotten her, 

That gave you life and libertie?" 

She looked o'er her left shoulder, 
To hide the tears stood in her e'e : 

"Now fare thee well, young Beichan,' 
says, 
••ril try to think no more on thee." 



she 



" never, never, Susie Pye, 

For surely this can never be ; 
Nor ever shall I wed but her 

That's done and dree'd so much for me." 

Then out and spak the forenoon bride — 
'• My lord, your love it chani,nnh soon ; 

This morning I was mjule your bride, 
And another's chose ere it be noon." 

"Oh hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride; 

Ve're ne'er a whit the worse for mo : 
And whan ye return to your own countrie, 

A double dower I'll send with thee." 

lie's taen Stisie Pye by the wliiie hand, 

And gently led her up and down : 
An<l ay. a>* he kist her red rosy lips, 

" Ye're welcome, jewel, to your own." 

He's taon her by the milk-white hand. 
Ami led her to yon fountain stane; 

He's changed her name from Susie Pye, 
And he's called her his bonny love. Lady 
Jane. 

AXOXTXOUS. 



iTlic (Carl o' CQnartcrbcck. 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew; 

And it was " Hey for hame I 
And ho for hame ! " But the skipper cried, 

" Hand her oot o'er the saut sea faem." 

Then up and spoke the king himsel' : 

*• Hand on for Dumferline !" 
Quo the skipper, " Ye're king upo' the land — 

I'm king upo' the brine." 

And he took the helm intil his hand. 

And he steered the ship sae free; 
Wi' the wind a-^^tarn, he crowded saU, 

And stood right out to sea. 

Quo the king. " There 's treason in this, I vow ; 

This is something underhand I 
'Bout ship ! " Quo the skipper. " Yer grace forgets 

Ye are king but o' the land I " 

And still he held to the open sea : 

And the east wind sank behind ; 
And the west had a bitter word to say, 

Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind. 

And he turned her head into the north. 

Said the king: "Gar fling him o'er." 
Quo the fearless skipper: " It's a' ye're worth ! 

Ye '11 ne'er see Scotland more." 

The king crept down the cal)in-stair. 

To drink the gude Freneh wine. 
And up she canu\ his daughter fair, 

And luikit ower the brine. 

She turned her face to the drivin' hail, 

To the hail but and the weet ; 
Her snood it brak, and, as lang's hersel'. 

Her hair drave out i' the sleet. 

She turned her face frae the drivin' win' — 

" What 's that aliea<l f " quo she. 
The skijiper he threw liimsel' frae tlie win', 

And he drove the hrlin a-lee. 

" Put to yer hand, my lady fair I 

Put to yer hand." (pioth he: 
"Gin .she ilinna fare the win' the mair. 

It 's the waur for vou and me." 



THE EARL 0' QUARTERDECK. 



203 



For the skipper kenned that strength is strength, 

Whether woman's or man's at last. 
To the tiller the lady she laid her han', 

And the ship laid her cheek to the blast. 

For that slender body was full o' soul, 

And the will is mair than shape ; 
As the skipper saw when they cleared the berg, 

And he heard her quarter scrape. 

Quo the skipper : '• Ye are a lady fair, 

And a princess grand to see ; 
But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail 

To hell in yer company." 

She liftit a pale and a queenly face ; 

Her een flashed, and syne they swam. 
" And what for no to heaven ? " she says, 

And she turned awa' frae him. 

But she took na her han' frae the good ship's helm. 

Until the day did daw'. 
And the skipper he spak, but what he said 

It was said at ween them twa. 

And then the good ship she lay to, 

With the land far on the lee ; 
And up cam the king upo' the deck, 

Wi' wan face and bluidshot ee. 

The skipper he louted to the king : 

" Gae wa', gae wa'," said the king. 
Said the king like a prince, " I was a' wrang, 

Put on this ruby ring." 

And the wind blew lowne, and the stars cam oot, 

And the ship turned to the shore ; 
And, afore the sun was up again, 

They saw Scotland ance more. 

That day the ship hung at the pier held, 

And the king he stept on the land, 
" Skipper, kneel do^vn," the king he said, 

" Hoo daur ye afore me stand ? " 

The skipper he louted on his knee. 

The king his blade he drew : 
Said the king, " How daured ye contre me ? 

I'm aboard my ain ship noo. 



" I canna mak ye a king," said he, 
" For the Lord alone can do that ; 

And besides ye took it intil yer ain han'. 
And crooned yersel' sae pat ! 

" But wi' what ye will I redeem my ring ; 

For ance I am at your beck. 
And first, as ye loutit Skipper o' Doon, 

Rise up Yerl o' Quarterdeck." 

The skipper he rose and looked at the king 

In his een for all his croon ; 
Said the skipper, " Here is yer grace's ring. 

And yer daughter is my boon." 

The reid blude sprang into the king's face, — 

A wrathful man to see : 
" The rascal loon abuses our grace ; 

Gae hang him upon yon tree." 

But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship, 

And he drew his biting blade ; 
And he struck the chain that held her fast. 

But the iron was ower weel made. 

And the king he blew a whistle loud ; 

And tramp, tramp, down the pier. 
Cam twenty riders on twenty steeds, 

Clankin' wi' spur and spear. 

" He saved your life ! " cried the lady fair ; 

" His life ye daurna spill ! " 
" Will ye come atween me and my hate ? " 

Quo the lady, " And that I wHl ! " 

And on cam the knights wi' spur and spear. 

For they heard the iron ring. 
" Gin ye care na for yer father's grace. 

Mind ye that I am the king." 

" I kneel to my father for his grace. 

Eight lowly on my knee ; 
But I stand and look the king in the face. 

For the skipper is king o' me." 

She turned and she sprang upo' the deck, 
And the cable splashed in the sea, 

The good ship spread her wings sae white, 
And away with the skipper goes she. 



204 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Now was not this a king's daughter, 

And a brave lady beside i 
And a woman with whom a man might sail 

Into the heaven wi' pride ? 

George MacDonald. 



Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, 

Combing his milk-white steed; 
When up came Lady Xancy Belle, 

To wish her lover good speed, speed, 

To wish her lover good speed. 

" Where are you going. Lord Lovel f " she said, 
" Oh ! where are you going ? " said she ; 

" I 'm going, my Lady Xancy Belle, 
Strange countries for to see, to see. 
Strange countries for to see." 

" When will you ])e ])ack. Lord Lovel f " said she 
"01 when will you come back f" said she; 

'* In a year or two — or three, at the most, 
I 'II return to my fair Xancy-ey, 
I "11 return to my fair Xancy." 

But he had not been gone a year and a day, 
Strange countries for to see, 

When languishing thoughts came into his head, 
Tjady Xancy Belle he would go see, see. 
Lady Xancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white steed, 
Till he came to London town. 

And there he heard St. Pancras' l>ells. 

And the people all mourning, rf)und. round, 
And the people all mourning round. 

"Oh. what is the matter," Lord Lovel he said, 
"Oh ! what is the matter?" said he; 

"A lord's lady is dead." a woman re|)lied, 
"And some call her Lady Xancy-cy, 
And some call lier I-.idv X.iiicv." 

So ho onlered the grave to l>e opened wide. 
And the shroud he turned down. 

An<l tlnTe he ki><sed her clay-cold li|)s. 
Till the tears came trickling down, down. 
Till the tears came trickling down. 



Lady Xancy she died as it might be to-day, 

Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; 
Lady X'ancy she died out of pure, pure grief, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow. 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Xancy was laid in St. Pancras' church, 

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir: 
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose. 

And out of her lover's a brier, brier. 

And out of her lover's a brier. 

They grew, and they grew, to the church steeple top. 
And then they could grow no higher: 

So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot, 

For all lovers true to admire-mire. 

For all lovers tnie to admire. 

Anonymous. 



Uobin i^oob nub ^llcn-a-Dalc. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
All you that love mirth for to hear, 

And I will tell you of a bold outlilw. 
That lived in Xottinghamshire. 

As Ro])in Hood in the forest stood. 
All under the greenwood tree, 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 
As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay : 
And he did frisk it over the jilain, 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay, 
There did he es|)y the same young man 

Come (Irooj)ing along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day lR>fore 

It was clean cast away : 
And at every step he fetched a sigh, 

" AhisI and a well-a-day !" 

Then stopped forth brave Little John. 

And .Midge, the miller's son ; 
Which made the young man IkmuI his lx>w, 

When as he see them come. 



BOBIX HOOD AXD ALLEX-A-DALE. 



205 



" Stand off ! stand off I " the young man said, 

'• What is your will with me? " 
" You must come before our master straight. 

Under yon greenwood tree." 

And when he came bold Robin before, 

Robin asked him courteously, 
" 0, hast thou any money to spare. 

For my merry men and me?" 

" 1 have no money," the young man said, 

" But five shillings and a ring : 
And that I have kept this seven long years. 

To have at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have mairied a maid. 

But she was from me ta'en. 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight. 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 

" What is thy name ? " then said Robin Hood, 
'• Come tell me, without any fail." 

" By the faith of my body," then said the young 
man, 
" 3Iy name it is AUen-a-Dale." 

" What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 

'• In ready gold or fee, 
To help thee to thy true love again. 

And deliver her unto thee ? " 

" I have no money," then quoth the young man, 

Xo ready gold nor fee, 
But I will s^vear upon a book 

Thy trae servant for to be." 

" How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come tell me without guUe." 
" Bv the faith of mv bodv." then said the vonng 
man. 

" It is but five little mile." 

Then Robin he hasted over the plain ; 

He did neither stint nor lin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where Allen should keep his weddin', 

" What hast thou here ? " the bishop then said ; 

" I prithee now tell unto me." 
" I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

" And the best in the north countrv," 



" Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he said ; 

" That music best pleaseth me." 
" You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, 

" Till the bride and bridegroom I see." 

With that came in a wealthy knight, 
Which was both grave and old ; 

And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

" This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, 
" That you do seem to make here ; 

For since we are come into the church, 
The bride shall chuse her own dear." 

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, 

And blew blasts two or three ; 
When four-and-twenty yeomen bold 

Came leaping over the lea. 

And when they came into the church-yard, 

Marching all in a row. 
The first man was AUen-a-Dale. 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

" This is thy true love." Robin he said, 

" Young Allen, as I hear say : 
And vou shall be married this same time, 

Before we depart away." 

" That shall not be," the bishop he cried, 
" For thy word shall not stand ; 

They shall be three times asked in the church, 
As the law is of our land." 

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat. 

And put it upon Little John : 
" By the faith of my body." then Robin said, 

" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

Wlien Little John went into the quire. 

The people began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times into church. 

Lest three times should not be enough. 

" Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, 
Quoth Robin Hood. " That do 1 : 

And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 
Full dearly he shall her buv." 



20G 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And then having ended this merry wedding, 

The bride looked like a queen : 
And so they returned to the raerry green wood, 

Amongst the leaves so green. 

AN0KT5I0C>. 



(The Dailiff's Dauglitcr of Islington. 

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe. 

And he was a squire's son ; 
He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, 

That lived in Islington. 

Vet she was cove, and would not believe 

That he did love her soe. 
Noe nor at any time would she 

Any countenance to him showe. 

But when his friendes did understand 

His fond and foolish minde. 
They sent him up to faire London, 

An apprentice for to binde. 

And when he had lx;en seven long yeares. 

And never his love could see, — 
" Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 

Wlien she little thought of mee." 

Then all the maids of Islington 

Went forth to spirt and jilaye. 
All but the IwyliflFe's daughter deare; 

She secretly stole awaye. 

She pulled off her gowne of greene, 

And put on ragged attire, 
And to faire London she would go 

Her true love to enquire. 

And aj< she went along the high road, 

The weather being hot and drye. 
She sat her downe upon a green ))ankf 

And her true love came riding bye. 

She started up with a colour soe redd, 

Catching hold of his bridle-reine ; 
**One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, 

*• Will ease me of much iwine." 



" Before I give you one i^enny, sweet-heart, 
Praye tell me where you were borne." 

'' At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, 
" Where I have had many a scorne." 

'• I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, 

O tell me, whether you knowe 
The bayliffe's daughter of Islington." 

" She is dead, sir, long agoe." 

"If she be dead, then take my horse, 

My saddle and bridle also ; 
For I will into some farr countrye. 

Where noe man shall me knowe." 

"0 staye, staye, thou goodlye youthe. 

She standeth by thy side : 
She is here alive, she is not dead, 

And readye to be thy bride."' 

" farewell griefe, and welcome joye. 

Ten thousand times therefore ; 
For nowe I have founde mine owne true love. 

Whom I thought I should never see more." 

AXOXYJIOCS. 



(Trutli's iJutcgritn. 

FIRST PART. 

Over the mountains 

And under the waves, 
Over the fountains 

And under the graves, 
rndor floixls which are deepest, 

Which (\o Xeptune ol>ey. 
Over rocks which are steepest, 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lie. 
Where there is no place 

For receipt of a fly. 
Where the gnat dares not venture. 

Lest herself fast she lay, 
But if T^ve come he will enter, 

And find out the wav. 



TRUTH'S INTEGRITY. 



207 



You may esteem him 

A child of his force, 
Or you may deem him 

A coward, which is worse, 
But if he whoDi Love doth honor 

Be concealed from the day, 
Set a thousand guards upon him — 

Love will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him. 

Which is too unkind ; 
And some do suppose him, 

Poor heart, to be blind ; 
But if he were hidden, 

Do the best you may, 
Blind Love, if you so call him. 

Will find out the way. 

Well may the eagle 

Stoop down to the fist, 
Or vou may inveigle 

The phoenix of the east ; 
W^ith fear the tiger 's inoved 

To give over their prey ; 
But never stop a lover — 

He will find out the way. 

From Dover to Berwick, 

And nations thereabout. 
Brave Guy, earl of Warwick, 

That champion so stout, 
With his warlike behavior, 

Through the world he did stray, 
To win his Phillis's favor — 

Love will find out the way. 

In order next enters 

Bevis so brave. 
After adventures 

And policy brave, 
To see whom he desired. 

His Josian so gay. 
For whom his heart was fired — 

Love will find out the way. 

SECOND PART. 

The Gordian knot 

Which true lovers knit, 
Undo it you cannot, 

Nor yet break it ; 



Make use of your inventions, 

Their fancies to betray, 
To frustrate their intentions — 

Love will find out the way. 

From court to the cottage, 

In bower and in hall, 
From the king unto the beggar. 

Love conquers all. 
Though ne'er so stout and lordly, 

Strive or do what you may, 
Yet be ne'er so hardy, 

Love will find out the way. 

Love hath power over princes, 

And greatest emperors ; 
In any provinces. 

Such is Love's power 
There is no resisting, 

But him to obey ; 
In spite of all contesting, 

Love wdl find out the way. 

If that he were hidden, 

And all men that are 
Were strictly forbidden 

That place to declare, 
Winds that have no abidings, 

Pitying their delay. 
Would come and bring him tidings. 

And direct him the way. 

If the earth should part him. 

He would gallop it o'er ; 
If the seas should o'erthwart him. 

He would swim to the shore. 
Should his love become a swallow, 

Through the air to stray, 
Love will lend wings to follow, 

And will find out the way. 

There is no striving 

To cross his intent. 
There is no contriving 

His plots to prevent ; 
But if once the message greet him, 

That his true love doth stay, 
If death should come and meet him. 

Love will find out the way. 

Anonymous. 



238 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Z\]c friar of CDrbcrs (5ran. 

It was a friar of orders gray, 
Walked forth to tell his beads; 

And he met with a lady fair 
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 

"Xow Christ thee save, thou reverend friar: 

I pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true-love thou didst see." 

" And how should I know your true-love 

From many another one i " 
" O, by his cockle hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoon. 

" But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 

And eyes of lovely blue." 

*' lady, he's dead and gone I 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turf, 

And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloisters long 

He languished, and he died, 
Lamenting of a lady's love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

" Here l>ore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall. 
And many a tear btvlcwed his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall." 

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth f 

And art thou dead and gone f 
And didst thou die for love of mef 

Break, cruel heart of stone I " 

" Oh weep not, lft<ly, weep not so ; 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart. 

Nor tears Ix'dew thy cheek.*' 

" Oh do not. do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove : 
For I have lost the swwtest youth 

That e'er won ladv's love. 



" And now. alas 1 for thy sad loss 

I'll evermore weep and sigh : 
For thee I only wished to live, 

For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

" Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 

Why then should sorrow la^-it f 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss. 

Grieve not for whatJ is past," 

" Oh sjiy not so, thou holy friar ; 

1 pray thee, say not so ; 
For since my true-love died for me, 

'Tis meet my tears should flow. 

" And will he never come again f 

Will he ne'er come again f 
Ah I no, he is dead and laid in his grave : 

For ever to remain. 

"His cheek was redder than the rose; 

The comeliest youth wjis he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave : 

Alas, and woe is me I " 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 

Men were deceivers ever: 
One foot on sea and one on land. 

To one thing constant never. 

" Iladst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I j>ray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

Oh he was ever tnie ! 

" And art thou dead, thou much-loved vouth, 

And didst thou die for me? 
Then far(>w(>ll home ; for evermore 

A j)ikTiin I will Im^. 



THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. 209 


" But first upon my true-lore's grave 


In his courteous company was all her joy. 


My weary limbs I'll lay, 


To favour him in any thing she was not coy. 


And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf 




That wraps his breathless clay." 


At the last there came commandment 




For to set the ladies free. 


" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 


With their jewels still adorned. 


Beneath this cloister wall ; 


None to do them injury. 


See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, 


" Alas ! " then said this lady gay, " full woe is me ; 


And drizzly rain doth fall." 


Oh let me still sustain this kind captivity ! 


" Oh stay me not, thou holy friar, 


" gallant captain, shew some pity 


Oh stay me not, I pray ; 


To a ladye in distresse ; 


No drizzly rain that falls on me, 


Leave me not within this city, 


Can wash my fault away." 


For to dye in heavinesse. 




Thou hast set this present day my body free, 


" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 


But my heart in prison strong remains with thee." 


And dry those pearly tears ; 




For see beneath this gown of gray 


" How should'st thou, fair lady, love me. 


Thy own true-love appears. 


Whom thou know'st thy country's foe ? 




Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee : 


" Here forced by grief and hopeless love 


Serpents are where flowers grow." 


These holy weeds I sought ; 


" All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight. 


And here, amid these lonely walls, 


God grant unto myself the same may fully light. 


To end my days I thought. 






" Blessed be the time and season, 


" But haply, for my year of grace 


That you came on Spanish ground ; 


Is not yet passed away. 


If you may our foes be termed, 


Might I still hope to win thy love, 


Gentle foes we have you found : 


No longer would I stay." 


With our city, you have Avon our hearts each one ; 




Then to your country bear away that is your own." 


" Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 


•/ J t/ J 


Once more unto my heart ; 


" Rest you still, most gallant lady ; 


For since I have found thee, lovely youth. 


Rest you still, and weep no more ; 


We never more will part." 


Of fair lovers there are plenty, 


Thomas Percy. 


Spain doth yield a wondrous store." 




" Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find. 




But Englishmen throughout the world are counted 


^\)t Spanisl) £abp's Cooe. 


kind. 


Will you hear a Spanish lady. 


" Leave me not unto a Spaniard, 


How she wooed an English man ? 


You alone enjoy my heart ; 


Garments gay, as rich as may be. 


I am lovely, young, and tender, 


Decked with jewels, had she on. 


And so love is my desert. 


Of a comely countenance and grace was she. 


Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest ; 


And by birth and parentage of high degree. 


The wife of every Englishman is counted blest." 


As his prisoner there he kept her, 


" It would be a shame, fair lady. 


In his hands her life did lye; 


For to bear a woman hence ; 


Cupid's bands did tye her faster 


English soldiers never carry 


By the liking of an eye. 
i6 


Any such without offence." 



210 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



'* 1 will quickly chano:e myself, if it be so, 
And like a page I'll follow thee, where'er thou 
go." 

'• I have neither gold nor silver 
To maintain thee in this case, 
And to travel, 'tis great charges, 
As you know, in every place." 
" ^ly chains and jewels every one shall be thine 

own, 
And eke ten thousand pounds in gold that lies 
unknown." 

*' On the seas are many dangers ; 

Many storms do there arise. 
Which will be to ladies dreadful. 
And force tears from wat'ry eyes." 
"Well in worth I could endure extremity, 
For 1 could find in heart to lose my life for 
thee." 

" Courteous lady, be contented ; 

Here comes all that breeds the strife; 
1 in England have already 
A sweet woman to my wife : 
I will not falsifie my vow for gold or gain, 
Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in 
Spain." 

" Oh how happy is that woman 
That enjoys so tnie a friend ! 
Many days of joy God send you ! 
Ot my suit I'll make an end : 
(Ml my knees I pardon crave for this offence, 
Which love and true affection did first commence. 

"Tommen*! me to thy loving lady: 

Hear to her this ehain of gold. 
And these bracelets for a token ; 
Grieving that I was so bold. 
All my jewels in like sort l>ear then) with thee, 
Yov these are fitting for thy wife, aiul not for me. 

" I will spend my days in prayer. 

Love and all her laws defie; 
In a nunnery will I shroud me. 
Far from other company : 
But ere my prayers have end, he sure of this. 
To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. 



*' Tims farewell, most gentle captain, 

And farewell my heart's content ! 
Count not Spanish ladies wanton. 
Though to thee my love was bent : 
Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee !" 
" The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.' 

Anonymous. 



^[\c (JMonc. 

(peter roxsard loquitur.) 

*' Heigho,"' yawned one day King Francis, 

" Distance all value enhances ! 

When a man 's busy, why, leisure 

Strikes him as wonderful pleasure — 

'Faith, and at leisure once is he ? 

Straightway he wants to be busy. 

Here we've got jieace ; and aghast I'm 

Caugiu thinking war the true pastime! 

Is there a reason in metre f 

Give us your speech, Master Peter ! " 

1 who, if mortal dare say so. 

Ne'er am at loss with my Xaso, 

"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: 

Men are the merest Ixious" — 

Here the King whistled aloud, " Let's 

. . Ileigho . . go look at our lions!" 

Such are the sorrowful chances 

If you talk fine to King Francis. 

And so, to the court-yard proceeding. 

Our comjiany. Francis was leading. 

Increased by now followers tenfoUl 

Before he arrived at the penfold : 

Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen 

At sunset the western horizon. 

And Sir De Lorge pressed 'juid the foremost 

With the dame he professed to adore most — 

Oh. what a face ! One by fits eyed 

Ili'r, and the horrible pitside; 

For the penfold surrounded a hollow 

Which led where the eyes scarce dared follow. 

And shelval to the chamber secluded 

Where Bluel)oar<l, the great lion brooded. 

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab 

As glossy and black as a scarab. 

And InuIo him make sport and at once stir 

Up and out of his den the old monster. 



{. 



THE GLOVE. 



211 



They opened a hole in the wire-work 

Across it, and dropped there a fire-work, 

And fled ; one's heart's beating redoubled ; 

A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 

The blackness and silence so utter, 

By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter, 

Then earth in a sudden contortion 

Gave out to our gaze her abortion ! 

Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot 

(Whose experience of Xature 's but narrow. 

And whose faculties move in no small mist 

When he versifies David the Psalmist) 

1 should study that brute to describe you 

Ilium Juda Leonem de Trihit ! 

One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy 

To see the black mane, vast and heapy, 

The tail in the air stiff and straining, 

The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning. 

As over the barrier which bounded 

His platform and us who surrounded 

The barrier, they reached and they rested 

On the space that might stand him in best 

stead ; 
For who knew, he thought, what the amaze- 
ment, 
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant. 
And if, in this minute of wonder. 
No outlet 'mid lightning and thunder, 
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, 
The lion at last was delivered? 
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead I 
And you saw by the flash on his forehead, 
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. 
He was leagues in the desert already. 
Driving the flocks up the mountain. 
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain 
To waylay the date-gathering negress : 
So guarded he entrance or egress. 
" How he stands ! " quoth the King ; " we may well 

swear, 
No novice, we 've won our spurs elsewhere, 
And so can afford the confession. 
We exercise wholesome discretion 
In keeping aloof from his threshold ; 
Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, 
Their first would too pleasantly purloin 
The visitor's brisket or surloin : 
But who 's he would prove so foolhardy ? 
Not the best man of Marignane, pardie ! " 



The sentence no sooner was uttered, 
Than over the rails a glove fluttered, 
Fell close to the lion, and rested : 
The dame 't was, who flung it and jested 
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing 
For months past ; he sate there pursuing 
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance 
Fine speeches like gold from a balance. 

Sound the trumpet, no true knight 's a far- 
rier ! 
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, 
Walked straight to the glove — while the lion 
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on 
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring"s sapphire, 
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir — 
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, 
Leaped back where the lady was seated, 
And full in the face of its owner 
Flung the glove — 

" Your heart's queen, you dethrone her ? 
So should I" — cried the King — "'twas mere 

vanity. 
Not love, set that task to humanity ! " 
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing 
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Not so I ; for I caught an expression 
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession 
Amid the Court's scofQng and merriment ; 
As if from no pleasing experiment 
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful 
So long as the process was needful ; 
As if she had tried in a crucible, 
To what *' speeches like gold " were reducible. 
And, flnding the finest prove copper, 
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper ; 
To know what she had not to trust to. 
Was worth all the ashes, and dust too. 
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter ; 
Clement Marot stayed ; 1 followed after. 
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant — 
If she wished not the rash deed's recallment ? 
" For 1 " — so 1 spoke — "" am a poet : 
Human nature behooves that I know it ! " 

She told me, " Too long had I heard 
Of the deed proved alone by the word t 



212 



POEMS OF l.nVE. 



For my love — what De Lorge would not dare ! 
With inv scorn — what De Lorge could com- 

]iare I 
And the endless descriptions of death 
He would brave when my lip formed a breath, 
I must reckon as braved, or, of course. 
Doubt his word — and moreover, perforce. 
For such gifts as no lady could spurn, 
Must offer my love in return. 
When I looked on your lion, it brought 
All the dangers at once to my thought, 
Encounteretl by all sorts of n^en, 
Before he was lotlged in his den — 
From the poor slave whose club or bare hands 
Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands. 
With no King and no Court to applaud. 
By no shame, shouhl he shrink, overawed, 
Yrt to capture the creature made shift. 
That his rude bovs might laugh at tiie gift. 
To the page who last leaped o'er the fence 
Of the pit. on no greater pretence 
Tlian to get back the bonnet h^ dropped. 
Ijcst his pay for a week should Ix' stopped. 
»S>, wiser I judged it to nutke 
One trial what '«leath for \\\\ sivke ' 
Really meant, while the power was yet mine. 
Than to wait until time shouUlldt'fijie 
Such a phrase not so simply as 1, 
Who took it to mean just *to die.* 
The i)low a glove gives is but weak — • 
D«x»s the mark yet discolor my cheek i 
But when the heart suffers a l)low. 
Will the jiain pass so soon, do you know f *" 

I l«K)ked, as away she was sweeping. 

And saw a youth eagerly keejting 

As close a«J he dare<l to the doorway ^ 

No doubt that a noble should more weigh 

Ilis life than befits a plel»eian ; 

And yet. had our brute been Nemean — 

(I judge by a certain calm fervor 

Th" youth stepped with, forward to serve her) 

— H<''d have scarce thought you did him the worst 
turn 

If you whisi)ered, " Friend, what you'd get, first 
earn \ " 

And wlien. shortly after, she carried 

Her shame from the Court, and they mar- 
ried, 



To that marriage some happiness, maugre 
The voice of the Court, I dared augur. 

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, 

Those in wonder and praise, these in envy ; 

And in short stood so plain a head taller 

That he wooed and won . . How do you call her? 

The beauty, that rose in the sequel 

To the King's love, who loved her a week well ; 

And 'twas noticed he never would honor 

De Lorge (who looked daggeiv; upon her) 

With the easy commission of stretching 

His legs in the service, and fetching 

His wife, from her chamber, those straying 

Sad gloves she was always mislaying. 

While the King took the closet to chat in — 

But of course this adventure came pat in ; 

And never the King told the story. 

How bringing a glove brought such glory, 

But the wife smiled — '' His nerves are grown 

firmer — 
Mine he brings now and utters no murmur !" 

Venienii oecurrite morho ! 

With which moral 1 drop my theorbo. 

Robert Bro>\'MNg. 



" Ti'RX, gentle hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way 

To where \o\\ taper cheei*s the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

" For here forlorn and lost I tread. 
With fainting steps and slow ; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

*' ForWar, my son," the hermit cries, 
"To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

*' Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my jxirtion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 



I 

t 



TEE EERMIT. 



" Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my ceil bestows ; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

" Xo flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn ! 
Taught by that power pities me, 

I learn to pity them ; 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast 1 bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

" Then, pilgrim, turn : thy cares forego ; 

All earth-born cai'es are wrong : 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell ; 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay ; 
A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stoi-es beneath its humble thatch 

Required a masters care : 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest. 
The hermit trimmed his little fire. 

And cheered his pensive guest ; 

And spread his vegetable store. 
And gayly prest and smiled; 

And, skilled in legendary lore. 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; 

The crackling fagot flies. 



But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe : 
For grief was heavy at his heart. 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied. 
With answering care oppressed : 

" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 

" From better habitations spumed, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unretiirned. 

Or unregarded love ? 

"Alas I the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling and decay; 

And those who prize the paltry things, 
More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

"And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest : 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

" For shame, fond youth I ihy sorrows hush. 

And spurn the sex." he said ; , 
But. while he spoke, a rising blush 

His lovelorn guest betraved. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift mantling to the view : 
Like colors o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 

"And. ah 1 foi'give a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn."' she cried : 
•• WTiose feet unhallowed thus intrude 

Where heaven and vou reside. 



214 POEMS OF LOVE. 


" But let a maid thy pity share, 


" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 


Whom love has taught to stray; 


And well my life shall pay ; 


Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 


I'll seek the solitude he sought. 


Companion of her way. 


And stretch me where he lay. 


"My father lived beside the TjTie, 


" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 


A wealthy lord was he : 


I'll lay me down and die ; 


And all his wealth was marked as mine, 


'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 


He had but only me. 


And so for him will I." 


*' To win me from his tender arms, 


" Forbid it heaven I " the hermit cried. 


Unnumbered suitors came ; 


And clasped her to his breast ; 


Who praised me for imputed charms, 


The wondering fair one turned to chide, — 


And felt, or feigned, a flame. 


'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 


" Each hour a mercenary crowd 


"Turn, Angelina, ever dear. 


Witii richest proffers strove: 


My charmer, turn to see 


Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 


Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 


But never talketl of love. 


Restored to love and thee. 


" In humble, simplest habit clad. 


" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 


No wealth or power had he ; 


And every care resign ; 


Wi>(lom and worth wen- all he had, 


And shall we never, never part. 


But these were all to me. 


My life, my all that's mine f 


" And when lieside me in the dale 


"No, never from this hour to part, 


He carolled lays of love. 


We'll live and love so true; 


His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 


The sigh that rends thy constant heart 


i And music- to the grove. 


Shall break thv Edwin's too." 

• 




Oliver Goldsmith. 


"The blossom opening to the <lay. 




The dews of heaven refined. 




Could nought «)f purity display 
To emulate his mind. 


iTIlc tnirb o' (Tockpcn. 




The laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great. 


"The dew, the blossoms of the tree. 


His mind is ta'en uj) with the things o' the state; 


With charms ineonstant shine; 


He wante<l a wife his braw house to keep, 


Tlu'ir charms weiv his. l>ut. w«k' t<i me! 


But favor wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 


Their constancy wjis mine. 






Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell. 


'• F<.r still I tried each fickle art. 


At his table-head he thought she'd look well; 


Importunate and vain ; 


M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 


And while his passion touche<l my heart, 


A peimiiess lass wi' a lang peiligree. 


I triumphed in his pain. 






His wig was weel pouthere<l. and as gude as 


"Till, (juite dejected with my scorn, 


new : 


He l«»ft me to my pride ; 


His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; 


And s4Might a solitu«le forlorn. 


He put on a ring, a sword, and cjM'ketl hat, i 


In secret, where he die<l. 


And wha coidd refuse the Lainl wi' a' that f M 



SWEET WILLIAWS FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAX. 



215 



He took the gray mare, and rade cannily — 
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : 
'• 'Grae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, 
She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cock- 
pen." 

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : 
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " 
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, 
Her mutch wf red ribbons, and gaed awa' 
do^vn. 

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, 
And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 

"Xa!"' 
And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. 

Dumbf oundered he was, na€ sigh did he gie ; 

He moimted his mare, he rade cannily ; 

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the 

glen. 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit had made. 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had 

said; 
"Ohl for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get 

ten. 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen. 

They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the 
green. 

Xow she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, 

But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cock- 
pen. 

Ladt Xaiknt:. 



SiDcct tOiUiam's i^arctDcU to Black- 
eticb Sns an. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, 
The streamei^s waving in the wind, 

TThen black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
Oh I where shall I my true-love find ? 

Tell me, ye jo^'ial sailors, tell me true, 

If my sweet William sails amons: vour crew. 



William, who high upon the yard 

Eocked with the billows to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sighed and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 

Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 

And di'ops at once into her nest. 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 

Susan. Susan, lovely dear. 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change, as ye list, ye winds : my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

Believe not what the landmen say, 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 

They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. 
In every port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 

For thou art present whereso'er I go. 

If to fair India's coast we sail. 
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 

Thy breath is Af ric's spicy gale. 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I view, 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

Though battle call me from thy arms. 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, 

William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
The sails their swelling bosoms spread ; 

Xo longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 

Adieu ! she cries ; and waved her lily hand. 

JoHx Gat. 



216 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



^\)c Gcamairs i)appn Uctnrn. 

When Sol did east no light, being darkened over. 
And the dark time of night did the skies cover. 
Running a river by, where were ships sailing, 
A maid most fair 1 spied, crying and wailing. 

Unto this maid I stept, asking what grieved her; 
She answered me and wept, fates had deceived her; 
My love is prest, quoth she, to cross the ocean — 
Proud waves to make the ship ever in motion. 

We loved seven years and more, both being sure. 
But 1 am left on shore, grief to endure, 
lie promised back to turn, if life was spared him ; 
With grief I daily mourn death hath debarred him. 

Straight a brisk lad she spied, made her admire, 
A present she received pleased her desire. 
Is my love safe, quoth she, will he come near me? 
The young man answer made. Virgin, pray hear me. 

Under one banner bright, for England's glory, 
Your love and I did fight — mark well my story; 
By an unhai)py shot we two were parted ; 
His death's wound then he got, though valiant- 
hear tetl. 

All this I witness can, for I stood by him. 
For courage. 1 must say, none did outvie him ; 
Jle still would foremost be, striving for honor; 
But fortune is a cheat, — vengeance upon her I 

But ere he wa.s quite dead, or his heart broken. 
To me these words he s^iid, Pray give this token 
To my lovf, for there is than she no fairer; 
Tell her she must be kind and love the bearer. 

Intombed he now doth lye in stately manner, 
'Cause he fought valiantly for love and honor. 
That right he had in you, to me he gave it ; 
Now since it is my due, pray let me have it. 

She, raging, flimg fi\\*fi\ like one distracted. 
Not knowing what to say, nor what she acted. 
So i.'ust she curseil her fate, and showed her anger. 
Saying. Friend, you come too late, 1 11 have no 
stranger. 



To your own house return, I am best pleased 
Here for my love to mourn, since he's deceased. 
In sable weeds I'll go, let who will jeer me ; 
Since death has served me so, none shall come near 
me. 

The chaste Penelope mourned for Ulysses ; 

I have more grief than she, robbed of my blisses. 

ril ne'er love man again, therefore pray hear 

me ; 
I'll slight you with disdain if you come near me. 

I know he loved me well, for when we parted. 
None did in grief excel, — both were true-hearted. 
Those promises we made ne'er shall be broken ; 
Those words that then he said ne'er shall be 
spoken. 

He hearing what she said, made his love stronger; 
Off his disguise he laid, and staid no longer. 
When her dear love she knew, in wanton fashion, 
Into his arms she flew, — such is love's passion ! 

He asked her how she liked his counterfeiting. 
Whether she was well pleased with such like greet- 
ing? 
You are well versed, (pioth she, in several speeches, 
Could you coin money so, you might get riches. 

happy gale of wind that waft thee over ! 

May heaven preserve that ship that brought my 
lover ! 

Come kiss me now, my sweet, true love's no slan- 
der; 

Thou shall my Hero be, I thy Leander. 

Dido of Carthage queen loved stout ^EneiLS, 
But my true love is fttund more true than he was. 
Venus ne'er fonder was of younger Adonis, 
Than I will be of thee, since thy love her own is. 

Then hand in hand they walk with mirth and 
pleasure, 

They laugh, they kiss, they talk — love knows no 
mejisure. 

Now both do sit and sing— but she sings clear- 
est ; 

Like nightingale in spring. Welcome my dearest ! 

ANONTMOrS. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



217 



Ql\)c (Bvc of St. ^gncs. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, 
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 

The sculptured dead on each side seem to freeze, 

Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 

He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails 

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Kough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 

That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on 
their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs 

gay 



Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
Whose heart had biooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times de- 
clare. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they de- 
sire. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
The music, yearning like a god in pain. 
She scarcelv heard ; her maiden eves divine. 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain, 
But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
year. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 



218 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He ventures in : let no buzzetl whisper tell ; 
All eyes l)e muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
A^inst his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saving, " Mercy, PorphvTo I hie thee from this 

place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 

race I 

"Get hence I get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde- 

brj\nd : 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He curseil thee and thine, both house and land ; 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Ahis me ! flit I 
Flit like a ghost away I" — '* Ah, gossip dear. 
We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, not 

hen*: 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will l)e thy 

bier." 

He followe<l through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwel>s with his lofty plume: 
And as she muttereil " Well-a — weil-aMlay I "* 
He found him in a little mo<:)nlight nxmi. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline." said he. 
*• Oh tell mo. Angela, by the holy loom 
Whi:h none but secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

"St. Agno>: Ah : it is .St. Agnes* P've — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days: 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be fiege-Iord of all the elves and fays. 



To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro I — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
Goal's help I my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile. I've mickle time 
grieve." 



to 



Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While PorphvTo upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. 
Flushing his brow, and in his pune<l heart 
Made purple riot ; then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the lieldame start : 
*' A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far ajwirt 
From wicketi men like thee. Go. go I I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem." 

" I will not harm her. by all saints I swear I " 
Quoth Porphyro: *M>h may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Goo<l Angela, believe me by these tears: 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout my foemen's ears. 
And l)eanl them, though thev be more fan;red 
than wolves and bears," 

'• Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul t 
A poor, we^k, palsy-stricken, church-yanl thing. 
Whose pa-^'jing-lx'll may ere the midnight toll : 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn ami evening. 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speei-h from buniinjr Porphvro; 
So woful. and of such d»H'p sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promis*' she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, Wtide her weal or woe. 



I 



THF EVE OF ST. AGXES, 



219 



Which was. to lead him. in close secrecv. 
Even to 31adeline*s chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such priracr 
That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride ; 
While legioned fairies paced the coveriet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous 
debt. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wQt see : no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust ray dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer 
The whDe. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd : 
The dame returned and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her : with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through manv a duskv arallerv. thev grain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
brain. 

Her faltering hand upon the Ijalustrade, 
Old Ansrela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline. St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, and down the agetl gossip led 
To a safe level matting- Xow prepare. 
Voung Porphvro. for gazing on that Ijed I 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed 
and fled- 

Out went the taper as she hurried in : 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air. and visions wide : 
Xo uttered syllable, or. woe betide I 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with elofjuenee her balmy side : 



As though a tongueiess nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her delL 

A casement high and triple-arched there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the riger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens 
and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphvro grew faint. 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
taint. 

Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one : 

Loosens her fragrant bodice : by degrees 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 

But dares not look behind, or aU the charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chUly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limits, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Pa\Tiims pray : 
Blinded alike from sunshine and fi-om rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness : 



220 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself ; then from the closet 

crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stcpt. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lol — how 

fast she slept. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilijj:ht, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : 
Oh for some drowsy ^lorphean anuilet 1 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone; 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is 
gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
While he from forth the closet ijrought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samaramd to cedared Lebanon. 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
On golden disjies and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
Thou art my heaven, and 1 thine eremite; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sjike. 
Or I shall drowse l^eside thee, so my soul doth 
ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains ; 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt a-^ iced stream : 
The lustrous silvers in the moonlight gleam; 
Broad golden fringe U|M»n the carpel lir's ; 
It seeme<l he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofcd phantasies. 



Awakening up, he took her hollow lute. 
Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy;" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. ' 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Xow wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
There was a painful change, that nigh expelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dream- 
ingly. 

'• Ah. Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
How changed thou art I how pallid, chill, and 

drear! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest. my love. I know not where to 

go. 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these volujituous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the vjulet. — 
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp .sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath 
set. 

'Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
" This is no dream, n>y l>iitlr. my Madeline !" 
'Ti< dark ; the iced gusts still rave and In^at : 
"No dri'am. ahis! alas! and woe is mine! 



THE BRIDAL OF AXDALLA. 



221 



Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
Cruel I what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, impruned 



" My Madeline I sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest i 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 

dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many houi's of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self : if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

" Hark I 'tis an elfin stonn from faiiy land. 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
Arise, arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
The bloated wassailers will never heed. 
Let lis away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. 
Awake I arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for 
thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears. 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; 
Tlie arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar: 
And the long caqDets rose along the gusty floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch the}' glide, 
Wliere lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side ; 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one. and one. the bolts full easy slide : 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones : 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
groans. 



And they are gone I ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior - guests, with shade and 

form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofiin-worm, 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought -for slept among his ashes 

cold. 

JoHx Keats. 



Z\\t Bribal of ::VnbaUa. 

" Rise up, rise up. Xarifa I lay the golden cushion 

down : 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town I 
From gay guitar and ^'iolin the silver notes are 

flowing. 
And the lovely lute doth speak between the trutn- 

pets' lordly blowing. 
And banners bright from lattice light are waving 

eveiywhere. 
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom 

floats proudly in the air. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa I lay the golden cushion 

down : 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town I 

" Arise, arise. Xarifa I I see Andalla's face — 

He bends him to the people with a calm and 

princely grace ; 
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadal- 

quiver 
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and 

lovely never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple 

mixed with white, 
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he wUl wed 

to-night. 
Rise up. rise up. Xarifa I lay the golden cushion 

down ; 
Rise up. come to the window, and gaze with all the 

town I 



223 



POEMS OF LOVE, 



" What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes thine eyes 

look down f 
Why stay ye from the wintlo\v far, nor gaze with 

all the town ? 
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you 

said the truth, 
Andalhi rides without a peer among all Granada's 

youth : 
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse 

doth go 
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and 

slow : 
Then rise — Oh I rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion 

do\vn : 
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with 

all the town ! " 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down. 
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the 

town : 
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain lior 

fingers strove, 
And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower 

Xarifa wove ; 
One bonny rose-bud she had traced l)efore the noise 

drew nigh ; 
That >x)nny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from 

her eye. 
"No — no I" she sighs — "bid me not rise, nor lay 

my cushion down, 
To gaze u})ou AndaUa with all the gazing town ! '' 

"Wljy rise ye not. Xarifa, nor hiy your cushion 

<l(>wn i 
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing 

t<»wn f 
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the 

people cry ; 
lie stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — 

O, why f " 
— " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate : in him shall 

I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with 

tears, and wa.s my lover f 
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion 

down. 

To gaze nn false Andalla with all the gazing 

town I " 

AxoNYMOus. (Spanish.) 
Translation of John (;ib«on Lockjiaht. 



Z\)t Darj-Drcam. 

THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

The varying year with Ijlade and sheaf 

Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf; 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, 

Faint nuirinurs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To st)irits folded in the womb. 

Soft lustre bathes tlie range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns. 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires. 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

JRoof-haunting martins warm their eggs; 

In these, in those the life is stayed. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily. No sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a i)ic-ture seenioth all. 
Than those old |)ortraits of old kings 

That watch the sleepere from the wall. 

Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between liis knees, half-drained; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his ta>k, 

The maid of honor blooming fair: 
The page ha-s caught her hand in his; 

Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
His own ar(> pouted to a kiss: 

The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 

Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And l)eaker brimmed with noble wine. 
Kach baron at the l^anquet sleejis ; 

Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps: 

He must have V)een a jovial king. 



THE DAY-DREAM, 



223 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood : 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up, the topmost palace spire. 

When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here ail things in their place remain, 

As all were ordered, ages since. 
Come care and pleasure, hope and pain, 

And bring the fated fairy prince 1 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown. 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 
The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 

The silk star-broidered coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
Languidly ever ; and amid 

Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, 
Grlows forth each softly-shadowed arm, 

With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 

All precious things, discovered late, 

To those that seek them issue forth : 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies. 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are withered in the thorny close. 

Or scattered blanching in the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perished in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes through his head : 

" The many fail ; the one succeeds." 

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks. 

He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; 
The color flies into his cheeks ; 

He trusts to light on something fair ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whispered voices in his ear. 

More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The magic music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops, to kiss her, on his knee : 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be I " 

THE REVIVAL. 

A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all ; 

A breeze through all the garden swept ; 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



224 POEMS OF LOVE. 


The hedge broke in, the banner blew,*''"'^ 


And o'er them many a flowing range 


The butler drank, the steward scrawled. 


Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark : 


The fire shot up, the martin flew, 


And. rapt through many a rosy change, 


The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 


The twilight died into the dark. 


The maid and page renewed their strife ; 


' 


The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt ; 


"A hundred summers ! can it be ? 


And all the long-pent stream of life 


And whither goest thou, tell me where ! " 


Dashed downward in a cataract. 


" Oh seek my father's court with me, 




For there are greater wonders there." 


And last with these the king awoke, 


And o'er the hills, and far away 


And in his chair himself upreared, 


Beyond their utmost purple rim, 


And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke : 


Beyond the night, across the day. 


" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 


Through all the world she followed him. 


How say you? we have slept, my lords; 


Alfred Texxtson. 


My Ijeard has grown into my lap." 




The barons swore, with many words, 




'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 


Cone. 


" Pardy ! ** returned the king. " but still 


All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 


My joints are something stiff or so. 


Whatever stii*s this mortal frame. 


My lord, and shall we pass the bill 


All are but ministers of love. 


I mentioned half an hour ago ? " 


And feed his sacred flame. 


The chancellor, sedate and vain. 




In courteous words returned reply ; 


Oft in my waking dreams do I 


But dallied with his golden chain. 


Live o'er again that happy hour. 


And, smiling, put the question by. 


"VMicn midway on the mount I lay. 




Beside the ruined tower. 


THE DEPARTURE. 


The moonshine stealing o'er the scene. 


And on her lovers arm she leant. 


Had blended with the lights of eve; 


And round her waist she fqlt it fold ; 


And she wa^ there, my hope, ray joy, 


And far across the hills they went 


My own dear Genevieve ! 


In that new world which is the old. 




Across the hills, and far away 


She leaned against the armed man. 


Bevond their utmost purple rim, 


The statue of the armed knight ; 


And deep into the dving dav. 


She stood and listened to ray lay, 


The happy princess followed him. 


Amid the lingering light. 


" I'd sleep another hundred years. 


Few sorrows hath she of her own. 


love, for such another kis^s ! " 


My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 


" Oh wake for ever, love, " she hears. 


She loves me l>est whene'er I sing 


" love, 'twas such Jis thi.^ and this." 


The songs that make her grieve. 


And o'er them many a sliding star. 


I played a soft and doleful air ; 


And many a merry wind was borne. 


I sang an old and moving story — 


And, streamed through many a golden bar. 


An old, rude song, that suited well 


The twilight melted into morn. 


That ruin wild and hoary. 


" eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 


She listened with a flitting blush. 


"0 happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 


\^ ith downcast eyes and motlest grace; 


" happy ki«s, that W(»ke thy sloop I " 


For well she knew I could not choose 


"0 lovr. ihy kiss would wake the dead I " 


But gjize upon her face. 



LOVE. 



225 



I told her of the knight that wore 

Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 

I told her how he pined — and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed that bold and lovely knight. 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 

And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in the face 

An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable knight ; 

And that, unknowing what he did, 

He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death. 
The lady of the land ; 

And how she wept and clasped his knees ; 

And how she tended him in vain. 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tonderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 

All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 



^7 



And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long. 

She wept with pity and delight, 

She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside, 

As conscious of my look she stapt. 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms ; 

She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 

And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



Zaxa'Q Q^ar-rinigs. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropped into 
the well. 

And what to say to Muya, I cannot, cannot 
tell — 

'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- 
harez' daughter : — 

The well is deep — far down they lie, beneath the 
cold blue water ; 

To me did Muya give them, when he spake his sad 
farewell, 

And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I can- 
not tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls in 

silver set. 
That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should 

him forget ; 



22(i 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile 
on other's tale, 

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those 
ear-rings pale. 

When he comes back, and hears that I have 
dropped them in the well. 

Oh I what will Mu^a think of me? — I cannot, can- 
not tell ! 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he "11 say they 
should have been, 

Xot of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glitter- 
ing sheen. 

Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear. 

Changing to the changing light, with radiance 
insincere ; 

That changeful mind unchanging gems are not be- 
fitting well. 

Thus will he think — and what to say, alas I cannot 
tell. 

He'll think, when I to market went I loitered by 

the way : 
Ue'U think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 

might say ; 
Ile'll think some other lover's hand, among my 

tresses noosed. 
From the ears where he had placed them ray rings 

of pearl unloosed ; 
Ile'll think when 1 was sporting so beside his 

marble well 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas I 1 cannot 

tell. 

Ile'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same : 
Ile'll say, I loved, when he was here to whis[xjr of 

his flame — 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had 

broken. 
And thought no more of Mu9a, and cared not for 

his token. 
My ear-rings I my ear-rings I oh ! luckless, luckless 

Wl'll,— 

For what to say to Mu9a — alas! I cannot tell. 

I'll tell the truth to Mu^a — and I hope he will 

believe — 
That I thought of hira at morning and thought of 

him at eve ; 



That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was 

gone. 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain 

all alone ; 
And that my mind wjis o'er the sea, when from my 

hand they fell. 

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie 

in the well. 

AxoxTMOus. (Spanish.) 
Tranelation of John Gibson Lockhart. 



jCabri (!3cralbinc's Conrtsliip. 

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE. 

A poet writes to his friend. Place— .4 rootn In Wycotnde 
EaU. Taiz—Late in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean 
my spirit o'er you I 
Down the purple of this chamber, tears should 
scarcely run at will. 
I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow 
my head before you. 
You should lead me to my peasants, but their 
faces are too still. 

There's a lady, an earl's daughter, she is proud 
and she is noble. 
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she 
breathes the perfumed air, 
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely 
eye to trouble, 
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened 
in her hair. 

She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles 
by the breakers. 
She has farms and she has manors, she can threat- 
en and command ; 
And the palpitating engines snort in steam across 
her acres. 
As the^k' mark ujwn the blasted heaven the 
measure of her land. 

There are none of Kngland's daughters who can 
show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors praying she has looked in 
her disdain. 



LADY GERALDIXE'S COURTSHIP. 



She "^as sprung of English nobles, I vras bom of 
English peasants ; 
What was / that I should love her — save for 
competence to pain ? 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her 
casement, 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought 
of other things. 
Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to 
my abasement. 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in 
wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps 
their door-ways : 
She has blest their little children, as a priest or 
queen were she. 
Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the 
poor was. 
For I thought it was the same smile which she 
used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in 
the palace ; 
And of all the fair court ladies, few have Jewels 
half as fine. 
Oft the prince has named her beauty "twixt the red 
wine and the chalice. 
Oh, and what was / to love her ? my beloved, 
my Geraldine ! 

Yet 1 could not choose but love her. I was born 
to poet-uses, 
To love all things set above me, all of good and 
all of fair. 
Xymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont 
to call the Muses ; 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from 
mount to star. 

And because I was a poet, and because the public 
praised me 
With a critical deduction for the modern writer's 
fault, 
I could sit at rich men's tables — though the courte- 
sies that raised me, 
Still suggested clear between us the pale spec- 
trum of the salt. 



And they praised me in her presence — " Will your 
book appear this summer ? " 
Then returning to each other — " Yes, our plans 
are for the moors." 
Then with whisper dropped behind me — " There 
he is I the latest comer I 
Oh, she only likes his verses I what is over, she 
endures, 

•' Quite low-born ! self-educated I somewhat gifted 
though by nature — 
And we make a point of asking him — of being 
very kind. 
You may speak, he does not hear you ! and be- 
sides he write no satire — 
All the serpents kept by charmers leave their 
natural sting behind." 

I grew scornf uller, grew colder, as 1 stood up there 
among them. 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorn- 
ing scorched my brow — 
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, 
overrung them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner 
nature through. 

I looked upward and beheld her. With a calm and 
regnant spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said 
clear before them all : 
" Have you such superfluous honor, sir. that able 
to confer it 
You will come down. Mister Bertram, as my 
guest to Wycombe Hall ? " 

Here she paused — she had been paler at the first 
word of her speaking. 
But because a silence followed it, blushed some- 
what, as for shame ; 
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly 
— " I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen think 
worthy of my claim. 

" Xe'ertheless, you see. I seek it — not because 1 am 
a woman " 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, 
overflowed her mouth). 



228 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" But because my woods in Sussex have some pur- 
ple shades at gloaming: 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his 
youth. 

*' I invite you. Mister Bertram, to no scene for 
wordly speeches — 
Sir. I scarce should dare — but only where God 
asked the thrushes first — 
And if yoH will sing l^eside them, in the covert of 
my beeches, 
I will thank you for the woodlands, ... for the 
human world, at worst." 

Then she smiled around right childly, then she 
gazed around right queenly. 
And I bowed — I could not answer ; alternated 
light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady 
eye serenely. 
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out state- 
ly from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them 
still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling 
up the wind. 
Oh, the cursed woods of Siissex I where the hunt- 
er's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had made 
me mad and blind I 

In that ancient hall of Wycoml^e, thronged the 
numerous guests invited. 
And the lovely London ladiefi trod the floors 
with gliding feet : 
And their voices low with fashion, not with feel- 
ing, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows with elastic 
laughters sweet. 

For at eve the open windows flung their light out 
on the terrace. 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did with 
gradual shadow sweep, 
While thf swans upon the river, ft-d at morning by 
the heiress. 
Trembled downward through their snowy wings 
at music in their sleep. 



And there evermore was music, both of instrument 
and singing. 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless 
in the dark ; 
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a 
moonlight ringing. 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the 
hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me with 
her silver-corded speeches 
To commix my words and laughter with the con- 
verse and the jest. 
Oft I sat apart, and, gazing on the river through 
the beeches, 
Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure 
voice o'erfloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, 
and laugh of rider. 
Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we 
lost them in the hills, 
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left 
beside her, ' 

Went a-wandering up the gardens through the 
laurels and abeles. j 

Thus her foot upon the new-mown grass, bare- i 

headed, with the flowing ' 

Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to 

her throat — 

And the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened | 

by her going. I 

And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubt- \ 

ing if to float — I 

With a branch of dewy maple, which her right | 
hand lu'ld alnive her. j 

And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt i 
her and the skies. 
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew 
me on to love her. 
And to worship the divineness of the smile hid \ 
in her eyes. 

For her eyes alone smile constantly : her lips have j 
serious sweetness. I 

I 

And her front is calm — the dimple rarely ripples 
on the cheek ; 4 



LADY GERALDiyE'S COURTSHIP. 



229 



But her deep blue eves smile constantly, as if they 
in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not 
care to speak. 

Thus she drew me the first morning, out across 
into the garden, 
And I walked among her noble Jfriends and could 
not keep behind, 
Spake she unto all and unto me — " Behold, I am 
the warden 
Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are 
cages to their mind. 

"But within this swarded circle, into which the 
lime-walk brings us, 
Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, stand away 
in reverent fear, 
1 will let no music enter, saving what the fountain 
sings us, 
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure 
enough to hear. 

" The live air that waves the lilies, waves the slen- 
der jet of water 
Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of 
fasting saint. 
Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping I (Lough 
the sculptor wrought her), 
So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush I — a fancy 
quaint. 

" Mark how heavy white her eyelids I not a dream 
between them lingers. 
And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips 
upon the cheek ; 
While the right hand, with the symbol rose held 
slack within the fingers. 
Has fallen backward in the basin ; yet this Si- 
lence will not speak ! 

" That the essential meaning growing may exceed 
the special symbol, 
Is the thought as 1 conceive it : it applies more 
high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through right noble- 
ness grow humble. 
And assert an inward honor by denying outward 
show." 



" Xay, your Silence," said I, " truly, holds her sym- 
bol rose but slackly. 
Yet she holds it — or would scarcely be a Silence 
to our ken. 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, 
or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble 
men. 

"• Let the poets dream such dreaming ! madam, in 
these British islands, 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the sym- 
bol that exceeds. 
Soon we shall have naught but symbol I and, for 
statues like this Silence, 
Shall accept this rose's image — in another case, 
the weed's." 

"Xot so quickly," she retorted — '• I confess, wher- 
e'er you go, you 
Find for things, names — shows for actions, and 
pure gold for honor clear. 
But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will 
throw you 
The world's book which now reads dryly, and 
sit down with Silence here." 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half 
in indignation ; 
Friends who listened, laughed her words off, 
while her lovers deemed her fair. 
A fair woman flushed with feeling, in her noble- 
lighted station 
Near the statue's white reposing — and both 
bathed in sunny air ! 

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard 
their vernal murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in 
and outward move. 
And the little fountain leaping toward the sun- 
heart to be warmer. 
Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much 
light above. 

"Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, morn- 
ing after morning. 
Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her 
feet. 



230 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Why, her greyhound followed also ! dogs — we 
both were dogs for scorning — 
To be sent back when she pleased it, and her 
path lay through the wheat. 

And thus morning after morning, spite of vows 
and spite of sorrow. 
Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days 
passed along, 
Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the 
fawns to-morrow, 
Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan 
in a song. 

Ay. for sometimes on the hill-side, while we sate 
down in the gowans. 
"With the forest green behind us, and its shadow 
cast Ijefore, 
And the river running under, and across it from 
the rowans 
A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt 
the air it bore, 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud 
the poems 
Miuk' to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more va- 
rious of our own ; 
Read the pastoral parts of Spenser — or the subtile 
interflowings 
Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book — 
the leaf is folded down ! — 

C)r at times a modern volume — Wordsworth's 
solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Ilowitt's baUad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted 
rfvcrif — 
i)v from Browning some " Pomegranate," which, if 
cut deep down the middle. 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined 
humanity. 

Oral times 1 rea<l thtif. lioarsdy. sunn' new poem 
of my making. 
Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to 
their worth — 
For the echo in you bnaks upon the words which 
you are six'aking. 
And the chariot-wlieels jar in the gate through 
which vou «lriv»' them forth. 



After, when we were grown tired of books, the 
silence round us flinging i 

A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beat- 
ings at the breast. 
She would break out, on a sudden, in a gush of 
woodland singing, ! 

Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired j 
of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know 
which is divinest — 
For her looks sing too — she modulates her ges- I 
tures on the tune ; 
And her mouth stii"s with the song, like song ; and i 
when the notes are finest, ' 

'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem i 
to swell them on. 

I 
Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice, so | 
cadenced in the talking, j 

Made another singing — of the soul I a music 
without bars. 
Wliile the leafy sounds of woodlands — humining 
round wiiere we were walking. 
Brought interposition worthy-sweet — as skies j 
about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if 
she always thought them ; 
She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird 
on branch. 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way be- 
sought them. 
In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow 
in the grange. 

In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often 
she speaks lightly. 
Has a grace in being gay. which even mournful 
souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest thought is 
understruck so rigiitly 
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers 
above. 

And she talked on — iro talked, rather I ur)on all * 
things, substance, shadow. 
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the 
rea pel's in the corn. 



5 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



231 



Of the little children from the schools, seen wind- 
ing through the meadow — 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept 
poorer bj its scorn. 

So of men, and so of letters; books are men of 
higher stature. 
And the only men that speak aloud for future 
times to hear ; 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly 
into nature. 
Yet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod 
from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me when I said — 
" The Age culls simples, 
With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the 
glory of the stars. 
TTe are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well 
shut up the temples, 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thun- 
der of our cars. 

" For we throw out acclamations of self -thanking, 
self-admiring, 
With, at every mile run faster — ' the wondrous, 
wondrous age,' 
Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as 
our iron, 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pil- 
grimage. 

" Why, what is this patient entrance into Xature's 
deep resources, 
But the child's most gradual learning to walk 
upright without bane ? 
Wien we drive out, from the cloud of steam, 
majestical white horses, 
Are we greater than the first men who led black 
ones by the mane ? 

" If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the 
stars in rising, 
If we wrapped the globe intensely with one hot 
electric breath, 
'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit- 
power comprising. 
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder 
men in death." 



She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her, 
loved her certes, 
As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted 
eyes and hands ! 
As I loved pure inspirations, loved the graces, loved 
the virtues. 
In a Love content with writing his own name on 
desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so, purely ! — thought no idiot 
Hope was raising 
Any crown to crown Love's silence — silent love 
that sate alone. 
Out, alas ! the stag is like me — he, that tries to go 
on grazing 
With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then 
reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reeled. I told you that her hand had 
many suitors ; 
But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus 
did the waves, 
And with such a gracious coldness, that they can- 
not press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly 
enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone within the inner 
chamber. 
With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant 
thought serene — 
For I had been reading Camoens, that poem you 
remember, 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, as the sweet- 
est ever seen — 

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from 
it. taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its 
own, 
x\s the branch of a green osier, when a child would 
overcome it. 
Springs up freely from his clasping and goes 
swinging in the sun, 

As I mused I heard a murmur — it grew deep as it 
grew longer — 
Speakers using earnest language — " Lady Geral- 
dine, you would I " 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And I heard a voice that pleaded ever on, in accents 
stronger. 
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its 
rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice; it was an earl's of soul 
that matched his station, 
Soul completed into lordship, might and right 
read on his brow; 
Very finely courteous, far too proud to doubt his 
domination 
Of the common people, he atones for grandeur 
by a bow. 

High, straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue 
eyes, of less expression 
Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of 
other men, 
As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips, which seem to taste 
possession, 
And be cautious lest Uie common air should in- 
jure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright — ay, and 
standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful; fond of art and 
letters too; 
Just a good man made a proud man, as the sandy 
rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb 
and flow. 

Thus, I knew that voice — I heard it, and I coidd 
not help the hearkening, 
In till' room I stood up blindly, and my burning 
heart within 
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, till they ran 
on all sides darkening. 
And scorched, weighed, like meltetl metal round 
my feet that stood therein. 

And that voice, I heard it pleatling, for love's sake, 
for wealth, position, 
Vi)Y the sake of lilwral uses, and great actions to 
be done ; 
And she interruptc<l gently, " Nay, my lord, the 
old tradition 
Of your Xormans, by some worthier hand than 
mine is, should Ik" won." 



"Ah, that white hand!" he said quickly, and in 
his he either drew it 
Or attempted, for with gravity and instance she 
replied, 
" Xay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we 
had best eschew it. 
And pass on, like friends, to other points less 
easy to decide." 

Wliat he said again, I know not. It is likely that 
his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she an- 
swered in slow scorn, 
"And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I 
marry, shall be noble. 
Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think 
how he was born." 

There, I maddened I her words stung me. Life 
swept through me into fever. 
And my soul sprang up astonished, sprang, full- 
statured in an hour. 
Know you what it is when anguish, with apoca- 
lyptic NEVER, 
To a Pythian height dilates you — and despair 
sublimes to power i 

From my brain, the soul-wings budded — waved a 
flame about my body, 
Wiionce conventions coiled to ashes. I felt self- 
drawn-out, {IS man. 
From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the 
skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew 
what spirits can. 

1 was mad — inspired — say either! (anguish work- 
eth inspiration). 
Was a man or beast — perhaps so, for the tiger 
roars, when sjieared ; 
And 1 walked on, step by steji. along the level of 
my passion — 
Oh, my soul ! and pm^sed the doorway to her 
face, and never feared. 

Jle had left her, jKrad venture, when my footstep 
proved my coming — 
IJut for her — she half arose, then sate — grew 
scarlet and grew pale. 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



233 



Oh, she ti'embled ! — 'tis so always with a worldly 
man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits — w^hat else can 
they do but quail ? 

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its 
forest-brothers 
Far too strong for it ; then drooping, bowed her 
face upon her hands. 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of 
her and others. 
I, she planted in the desert, swathed her, wind- 
like, with my sands. 

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted 
though leaf-verdant. 
Trod them down with words of shaming — all 
the purple and the gold. 
All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that 
spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because chancing 
not to hold. 

"For myself I do not argue," said 1, "though I 
love you, madam, 
But for better souls that nearer to the height of 
yours have trod. 
And this age shows, to my thinking, still more 
infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to 
God. 

" Yet, God," I said, " grave," I said, " moth- 
er's heart and bosom, 
With whom first and last are equal, saint and 
corpse and little child ! 
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments 
of heart-closing, 
We are traitors to your causes, in these sympa- 
thies defiled. 

"Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or 
wealth — ^7ia^ needs no learning, 
Tliat comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and 
culminates to sin ; 
But for Adam's seed, man! Trust me, 'tis a clay 
above your scorning. 
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's 
kindling breath within. 



"What right have you, madam, gazing in your 
palace mirror daily, 
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others 
must adore, 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your 
fingers, to vow gayly 
You will wed no man tbat's only good to God, 
and nothing more *? 

" Why, what right have you, made fair by that 
same God — the sweetest woman 
Of all women he has fashioned — with your lovely 
spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile 
were not so human. 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning com- 
mon words to grace ! — 

" What right can you have, God's other works to 
scorn, despise, revile them 
In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noble 
men, forsooth — 
As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to 
assoil them 
In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness 
of your mouth ? 

"Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit 
were less earthly, 
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver 
string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, and say. Be- 
hold me ! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee ! I am worthy as 
a king. 

" As it is, your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel 
this stain upon her. 
That /, poor, weak, tossed with passion, scorned 
by me and you again, 
Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief 
and your dishonor, 
To my endless desolation, and your impotent 
disdain ! " 

More mad words like these — mere madness! 
friend, I need not write them fuller, 
For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in 
showers of tears. 



234 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! why, a beast had 
scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the 
shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrat- 
ing with thunder 
Which mv soul had used. The silence drew her 
face up like a call. 
Could you guess what word she uttered! She 
looked up, as if in wonder, 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said, " Ber- 
tram ! " it was all. 

If she had cursed me, and she might have — or if 
even, with queenly bearing 
Which at need is used by women, she had risen 
up and said, 
" Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have 
given you a full hearing, 
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting some- 
what less, instead — " 

I had borne it ! — but that " Bertram " — why it 
lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent, and you can- 
not judge the weight 
Of the calm which crushed my passion. 1 seemed 
drowning in a vapor. 
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her 
scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward 
flow of passion 
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into 
forms of abstract truth. 
By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstra- 
tion. 
And by youth's own anguish turning grimly 
gray the hairs of youth — 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I 
spake wisely 
1 spake basely — using truth, if what I spake, in- 
deed was true, 
To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sate 
there weighing nicely 
A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such 
deeds as I could do ! • 



By such wrong and woe exhausted — what 1 suf- j 

fered and occasioned — j 
As a wild horse through a city runs with light- 
ning in his eyes. 

And then dashing at a church's cold and passive ■ 

wall impassioned, \ 

Strikes the death into his burning brain, and j 

blindly drops and dies — | 

I 

So I fell, struck down before her ! do you blame me, . 
friend, for weakness ? | 

'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell be- 
fore her like a stone. 
Fast the dreadful woi-ld rolled from me, on its ' 
roaring wheels of blackness — 
When the light came, 1 was lying in this cham- ; 
ber, and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out j 
the sickly burden, , 

And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not j 
heyond the gate ; ' 

She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to I 
pardon 
Such a man as I — 'twere something to be level 
to her hate. 

But for me, you now are conscious why, my friend, 
I write this letter, 
How my life is read all backward, and the charm j 
of life undone. ' 

I shall leave her house at dawn ; I would to-night, ' 
if T were better, i 

And I charge my soul to hold my body strength- | 
ened for the sun. 

Wlien the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no ' 
last gazes. 
No weak moanings (one word only, loft in writ- 
ing for her hands). 
Out of reacli of all derision, and some unavailing 
praises. 
To make front against this anguish in the far 
and foreign lands. 

Blame me not. I Avould not squander life in , 
grief, I am abstemious. j 

1 but nurse my spirit's falcon, that its wing may j 

\ 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 



235 



There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind 
eyes of a Phemius ! 
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does 
not die till then. 

CONCLUSION. 

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the 
silence ever, 
Still in hot and hea^y splashes fell the tears on 
every leaf. 
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with 
lips that quiver 
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwrit- 
ten thoughts of grief. 

Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream, a 
dream of mercies ! 
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she stand- 
eth still and pale ! 
'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his 
self -curses, 
Gent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of 
his wail. 

" Eyes," he said, " now throbbing through me ! are 
ye eyes that did undo me ? 
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian 
statue-stone ! 
Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever 
burning torrid 
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and 
life undone ? " 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the 
purple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motion- 
less pale brows, 
Wliile the gliding of the river sends a rippling 
noise forever 
Through the open casement whitened by the 
moonlight's slant repose. 

Said he — "Vision of a lady! stand there silent, 
stand there steady ! 
lSl"ow 1 see it plainly, plainly; now I cannot 
hope or doubt : 
There the brows of mild repression, there the lips 
of silent passion, 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter 
arrows out." 



Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling, 
And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding 
measured pace ; 
With her two white hands extended, as if praying 
one offended. 
And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his 
face. 

Said he — " Wake me by no gesture, sound of 
breath, or stir of vesture "? 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its 
divine ! 
No approaching — hush, no breathing I or my 
heart must swoon to death in 
The too utter life thou bringest, thou dream 
of Geraldine ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling. 
But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and 
tenderly, 
" Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is no woman 
far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such 
a one as 1 9 " 

Said he — "I would dream so ever, like the flowing 
of that river, 
Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the 
sea ! 
So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely to a full 
completeness. 
Would my heart and life flow onward, death- 
ward, through this dream of thee ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept 
smiling, 
While the silver tears ran faster down the blush- 
ing of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, 
she softly told him, 
" Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision 
only speaks." 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he 
fell before her. 
And she whispered low in triumph, " It shall be 
as I have sworn ! 



236 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Very rich he is in virtues, very noble, noble 
certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that men call 
him lowly born." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browxixg. 



®l)e Spinning -iXlli eel Song. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, 
Is eroaning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
ting. 
*' Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flap- 
ping." 
" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
" 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind 

dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 



" What's that noise that I hear at the window, I 

wonder ? " 
*' 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 

under." 
" What makes you be shoving and moving your 

stool on. 
And singing all wrong that old song of * The 

Coolun?'" 
There's a form at the casement, the form of her 

true-love, 
And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting for 

you, love ; 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 

lightly, 
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 

brightly." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while tlie foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 
ing. 



The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her 
fingers, 

Steals up from her seat, longs to go, and yet 
lingers ; 

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
mother. 

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the 
other. 

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; 

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 

The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her 
lover. 

Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings ; 

Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings ; 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 
moving, 

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight 

John Francis Waller. 



Doris: ^ JJastoral. 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers : 
I sat and wooed her. through sunlight wheeling 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and heark- 
ened. 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander ; 
Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! " 

I answered bolder, " Nay. let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling, 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! " 

She wliispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I shall be scolded and sent away." 



THE OLD STORY. 



237 



Said I, denying, " If thej' do miss you, 
They ought to kiss you when you get home : 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you co-me."^ 

*' They might remember," she answered, meekly, 
" That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild ; 

But if they love me, it's none so fervent : 
I am a servant, and not a child."" 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me. 
And love did win me to swift reply : 

" Ah ! do but prove me ; and none shall bind 
you, 
Nor fray nor find you, until I die ! " 

She blushed and started : I stood awaiting. 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them ; I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly, — she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 

And homeward drave them, we two together, 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 

My Doris tender, my Doris tnie ; 
That I, her warder, did always- bless- her. 

And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my d. welling, 

With love excelling, and undefiled ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. . 

Aethtjr Joseph Munby. 



^\)t ODIb Stars. 

He came across the meadow-pass, 

That summer eve of eves, 
The sunlight streamed along the grass 

And glanced amid the leaves ; 
And from the shrubbery below. 

And from the garden trees. 
He heard the thrushes' music flow 

And humming of the bees ; 
The garden gate was swung apart, 

The space was brief between ; 



But there,. for throbbing of his heart, 
He paused perforce to lean. 

He leaned upon the garden gate ; 

He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
Within the little porch she sate, 

With woodbine overwreathed ; 
Her eyes upon her work were bent, 

Unconscious who was nigh : 
But oft the needle slowly went, 

And oft did idle lie : 
And ever to her lips arose 

Sweet fragments sweetly sung, 
But ever, ere the notes could close. 

She hushed them on her tongue. 

Her fancies as they come and go, 

Her pure face speaks the while ; 
For now it is a flitting glow, 

And now a breaking smile ; 
And now it is a graver shade. 

When holier thoughts are there — 
An angel's pinion might be stayed 

To see a sight so fair ; 
But still they hid her looks of light, 

Those downcast eyelids pale — 
Two lovely clouds, so silken white. 

Two lovelier stars that veil. 

The sun at length his burning edge 

Had rested on the hill, 
And, save one thrush from out the hedge, 

Botli bower and grove were still. 
The sun had almost bade farewell ; 

But one reluctant ray 
Still loved within that porch to dwell, 

As charmed there to stay — 
It stole aslant the pear-tree bough, 

And through the woodbine fringe. 
And kissed the maiden's neck and brow. 

And bathed her in its tinge. 

" beauty of my heart I '' he said, 

" darling, darling mine ! 
Was ever light of evening shed 

On loveliness like thine ? 
WTiy should I ever leave this spot, 

But gaze until I die ? " 
A moment from that bursting thought 

She felt his footstep nigh, 



238 



POEJIS OF LOVE. 



One sudden, lifted glance — but one — 

A tremor and a start — 
So gently was their greeting done 

That who would guess their heart ? 

Long, long the sun had sunken down, 

And all his golden hail 
Had died away to lines of brown, 

In duskier hues that fail. 
The grasshopper was chirping shrill ; 

No other living sound 
Accompanied the tiny rill 

That gurgled under ground ; 
Xo other living sound, unless 

Some spirit bent to hear 
Low words of human tenderness 

And mingling whispers near. 

The stars, like pallid gems at first, 

Deep in the liquid sky, 
Now forth upon the darkness burst. 

Sole kings and lights on high ; 
For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme, 

No rival moonlight strove ; 
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam, 

Nor more majestic Jove. 
But what if hearts there beat that night 

That recked not of the skies. 
Or only felt their imaged light 

In one another's eyes '? 

And if two worlds of hidden thought 

And longing passion met, 
Which, passing human language, sought 

And found an utterance yet ; 
And if they trembled as the flowers 

That droop across the stream, 
And muse the while the starry hours 

Wait o'er them like a dream ; 
And if, when came the parting time, 

They faltered still and clung: 
What is it all i — an ancient rhyme 

Ten thousand times besung — 
That part of Paradise which man 

Without the portal knows, 
Which hath been since the world began. 

And shall be till its close. 

Anonymous. 



£oct)im)ar. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ; 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; 
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none ; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for 

stone ; 
He swam the Esk river where ford there was 

none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 

all: 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his 

sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 

word), 
" Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loch- 
invar ? " 

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you de- 
nied ; 

Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its 
tide ; 

And now I am come, with this lost love of 
mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; 

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 
far. 

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochin- 
var." 

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it 

up; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the 

cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 

sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 



'-1^ 



JOCK OF HAZELBEAN, 



239 



He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- 
invar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret and her father did 
fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better 
by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her 

ear, 
When they reached the hall door and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Nether- 
by clan ; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 
they ran : 

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie 
Lee, 

But the lost bride of ^STetherby ne'er did they 
see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- 
invar % 

Sir Walter Scott. 



lack of j|a^elbean. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladye % 

Why weep ye by the tide % 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son. 

And ye shall be his bride ; 
And ye shall be his bride, ladye, 

Sae comely to be seen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



" Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain of gold ye shall not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair. 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost of them a' 

Shall ride, our forest queen." 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was decked at morning tide ; 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And knight and dame are there ; 
They sought her both by bower and ha' ; 

The ladye was not seen. 
She's o'er the border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



®l)e dDutlara. 

0, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily : 
" 0, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen." 

" If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 
To leave both tower and town, 

Thou first must guess what life lead we 
That dwell by dale and down. 



J 



240 



POFJIS OF LOVE. 



And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as Queen of May." 
Yet sung she : " Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

" I read you by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
1 read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
*' A ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn. 

And mine at dead of night." 
Yet sung she : " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there 

To reign his Queen of May I 

With burnished brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum." 
" I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum 

My comrades take the spear. 
And 0, though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

" Maiden, a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I. 
And when I'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough. 
What once we were we all forget, 

Xor think what we are now. 
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



£ooe in tl)e ballcn. 



Cnder yonder beech-tree standing on the green i 
sward, ' 

Couched with her arms behind her little head. 
Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom. 
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. j 

Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her ! i 

Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow, i 
Waking on the instant she could not but embrace 

me — 
Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go? 

I 
Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow ; 
Swift as the swallow when, athwart the western 

flood, 
Circleting the surface, he meets his mirrored wing- 
lets, i 
Is that dear one in her maiden bud. i 
Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine- | 

tops; 
Gentle — ah I that she were jealous — as the dove ! i 
Full of all the wildness of the woodland creatures, i 
Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! \ 

What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her ? 
Can she truly doubt me when looking on my ; 

brows? * • j 

Nature never teaches distrust of tender love- i 

tales ; \ 

What can have taught her distrust of all my ! 

vows ? \ 

No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy eve-tide, \ 
Wliispering together beneath the listening moon, j 
I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she j 

faltered — i 

Fluttered to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so soon ! I 



When her mother tends her before the laughing 

mirror. 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair. 
Often she thinks — were this wild thing wedded, 
I should have more love, and much less care. 
When her mother tends her before the bashful 

mirror. 
Loosening her laces, combing down her curls. 
Often she thinks — were this wild thing wedded, 
I should lose but one for so many boys and girls. 



I 



OUR LOVE SHALL LIVE. 



241 



Clambering roses peep into her chamber, 
Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet ; 
White-necked swallows, twittering of summer, 
Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to 

feet. 
Ah ! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, 
When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on the 

leaves f 
Will the autumn garners see her still ungath- 

ered. 
When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping 

eaves % 

Comes a sudden question — should a strange hand 
pluck her ! 

Oh ! what an anguish smites me at the thought ! 

Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with 
jewels ! 

Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? 

Sometimes the huntsmen, prancing down the val- 
ley, 

Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; 

They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! 

Would she were older and could read my worth ! 

Are there not sweet maidens, if she still deny 
me? 

Show the bridal heavens but one bright star ? 

Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow. 

Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar f 

So I rhyme and reason till she darts before 
me — 

Through the milky meadows from flower to flower 
she flies, 

Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eye- 
lids 

From the golden loA^e that looks too eager in her 
eyes. 

When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face 

gazes 
Out on the weather through the window panes, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-lily 
Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. 
When from bed she rises, clothed from neck to 

ankle 
In her long night gown, sweet as boughs of May, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily, 
Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 
i8 



Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles 

Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew ; 

When the cold-cheeked dawn grows ruddy up the 

twilight, 
And the gold sun wakes and weds her in the blue. 
Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, 
She the only star that dies not with the dark ! 
Powerless to speak all the ardor of my passion, 
I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. 

Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweet- 
hearts ? 

Season after season tell a fruitless tale ? 

Will not the virgin listen to their voices f 

Take the honeyed meaning, wear the bridal veil ? 

Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare 
branches! 

Waits she the garlands of spring for her dower ? 

Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 

Till the April woodland has built her bridal 
bower ? 

Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and 
beauties ! 

With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery 
glee; 

With thy budding leafage and fresh green pas- 
tures ; 

And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon 
for me ! 

Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet ! 

Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue delight ! 

Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer ! 

Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 

George jVIeredith. 



QDur Cotje sl)aU Ciue. 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand ; 

But came the waves and washed it away ; 
Again I wrote it mth a second hand, 

But came the tide and made my pains his prey. 
Vain man ! said she, that dost in vain assay 

A mortal thing so to immortalize ; 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 

And eke my name be wiped out likewise. 
Not so, quoth I ; let baser things devise 

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame ; 



242 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 

And in the heavens write your glorious name, 
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, 
Our love shall live, and later life renew. 

Edjiund Spenser, 



(Jl)c betters. 

Still on the tower stood the vane ; 

A black yew gloomed the stagnant air ; 
I peered athwart the chancel pane. 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar, heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 

I turned and hummed a bitter song 

That mocked the wholesome human heart ; 

And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
• We met, but only meant to part. 

Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 

1 saw, with half -unconscious eye. 
She wore the colors 1 approved.. 

She took the little ivoiT chest ; 

With half a sigh she turned the key. 
Then raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings. 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, 1 looked on these. 

She told me all h ^v friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar. 
She talked as if her love were dead ; 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love : your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived ; 
Henceforth I trust the man alone ; 

The woman cannot be believed. 

" Through slander, meanest spawn of hell 
(And woman's slander is the worst), 

And you, whom once 1 loved so well. 
Through you my life will be accurst." 



1 spoke with heart, and heat, and force, 
I shook her breast with vague alarms — 

Like torrents from a mountain source 
We rushed into each other's arras. 

We parted. Sweetly gleamed the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue ; 
Low breezes fanned the belfry bars. 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appeared to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadowed swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage bells." 

Alfred Tennyson. 



S0nnct3. 

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, 

For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; 
The ornament of beauty is suspect, 

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. 
So thou be good, slander doth but approve 

Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time ; 
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love. 

And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. 
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days, 

Either not assailed, or victor being charged ; 
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise. 

To tie up envy, evermore enlarged. 
If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, 
Then, thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst 
owe. 



So are you to my thoughts, as food to life. 

Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground ; 
And for the peace of you I hold such strife 

As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found ; 
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon 

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ; 
Now counting best to be with you alone, 

Then bettered that the world may see my pleas- 
ure; 
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, 

And by and by clean starved for a look ; 
Possessing or pursuing no delight, 

Save what is had or must from you be took. 
Thus do I pine and suffer day by day ; 
Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 



SONNETS. 



Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing, 

And like enough thou know'st tliy estimate ; 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 

My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 

And for that, riches where is my deserving ? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 

And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not know- 
ing, 

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; 
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing. 

Comes home again, on better judgment mak- 
ing. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter : 
In sleep a king ; but waking no such matter. 



Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ; 
Both grace and faults are loved of more and 
less ; 

Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. 
As on the finger of a throned queen 

The basest jewel will be well esteemed, 
So are those errors that in thee are seen. 

To truths translated, and for true things deemed. 
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray. 

If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 
How many gazers might'st thou lead away, 

If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state ! 
But do not so ; I love thee in such sort 
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 



How like a winter hath my absence been 

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen. 

What old December's bareness everywhere ! 
And yet this time removed was summer's time ; 

The teeming autumn, big with rich mcrease, 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime. 

Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease ; 
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me 

But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit ; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee. 

And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 



From you have I been absent in the spring. 

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 

Of different flowers in odor and in hue, 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
grew ; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They are but sweet, but figures of delight. 

Drawn after you — you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 



The forward violet thus did I chide : 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet 
that smells, 
If not from my love's breath ? the purple pride 

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 

The lily I condemned for thy hand. 
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair ; 

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ; 

But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 

But sweet in color it had stolen from thee. 



When in the chronicle of wasted time 

I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, 

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have expressed 

Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring : 
And for they looked but with divining eyes. 

They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; 
For we, which now behold these present days. 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 



244 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 

Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come. 
Can yet the lease of my true love control. 

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, 

And the sad augurs mock their own presage : 
Incertainties now crown themselves assured. 

And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
Now, with the drops of this most balmy time 

3Iy love looks fresh, and death to me sub- 
scribes, 
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, 

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 



Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments ; love is not love, 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 
Oh no I it is an ever-fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be 
taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and 
cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief houi*s and weeks. 

But bears it out, even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



Oh ! never say that I was false of heart. 

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify ; 
As easy might I from myself depart. 

As from my soul, which in thy l^reast doth lie. 
That is my home of love ; if I have ranged. 

Like him that travels. I return again — 
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged; 

So that myself bring water for my stain. 
Never believe, thougli in my nature reigned 

All frailties that Ix^siege all kinds of blood. 
That it could so preposterously be stained, 

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
For nothing this wide universe I call, 
Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. 

William Shakespeare. 



00nnets. 

Come sleep, sleep ! the certain knot of peace. 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 

The indifferent judge between the high and low ! 
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw. 
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 



Ix martial sports I had my cunning tried. 
And yet to break more staves did me address ; 
While with the people's shouts I must confess, 

Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with 
pride ; 

When Cupid having me, his slave, descried 
In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 
" What now. Sir Fool ? " said he, " I would no less ; 

Look here, I say." — I looked, and Stella spied. 
Who, hard by, made a window send forth light ; 

My heart then quaked; then dazzled were mine eyes ; 
One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight ; 

Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 
My foe came on and beat the air for me. 
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 



HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear ; 

I saw myself with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear. 

While those fair planets on thy streams did shine ; 
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; 

While wanton winds, Avith beauties so divine 
Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair 

They did themselves, oh sweetest prison ! twine ; 
And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay 

Have made, but forced by nature still to fly, 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 

She so dishevelled, blushed : from window I, 
With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace ! 
Let honor's self to thee grant highest place. 



i 



SONNETS. 



245 



With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the 
skies, 

How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 

I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, 
To me that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then even of fellowship, Moon, tell me : 
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



S %i\>z Splice Qfternitn. 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things. 

That now in coaches trouble every street, 
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, 

Ere they be well wrapped in their winding- 
sheet. 
Where I to thee eternity shall give 

When nothing else remaineth of these days. 
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live 

Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ; 
Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes. 

Shall be so much delighted with thy story. 
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, 

To have seen thee, their sex's only glory : 
So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng. 
Still to survive in my immortal song. 

Michael Drayton. 



Sonnet. 

I Kxow that all beneath the moon decays ; 
And what by mortals in this world is brought. 
In time's great periods shall return to nought ; 

That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly lays, 

With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 

That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 



I know frail beauty's like the purple flower 
To which one morn oft birth and death affords, 
That love a jarring is of mind's accords. 

Where sense and will bring under reason's power : 
Know what I list, this all cannot me move, 
But that, alas ! I both must write and love. 

William Drumsiond. 



Sonnet. 

If it be true that any beauteous thing 

Raises the pure and just desire of man 

From earth to Grod, the eternal fount of all. 

Such 1 believe my love ; for as in her 

So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 

I view the gentle work of her Creator, 

I have no care for any other thing. 

Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous. 

Since the effect is not of my own power. 

If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth, 

Enamored through the eyes. 

Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, 

And through them riseth to the Primal Love, 

As to its end, and honors in admiring : 

For who adores the Maker needs must love His 

work. 

Michel Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of J. E. Taylor. 



®o bittoria (^o\onna. 

Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace. 

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 
For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made 
The world which we inhabit f Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 

Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid, 
Who such divinity to thee imparts 
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour : 
Bat in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower. 

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 

Michel Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of William Wordsworth. 



246 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Sonnets from tl)c Jjortngucse. 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
" I love her for her smile, her look, her way 

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day. " 
For these things in themselves, beloved, may 

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so 
wrought. 

May be un wrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 

But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 



I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, dearest, except this to thee. 
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 

I ring out to the full brown length, and say, 

" Take it ! " My day of youth went yesterday ; 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears. 
Taught drooping from the head that hangs 
aside 

Through sorrow's trick, I thought the funeral 
shears 
Would take this first, but love is justified, — 

Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years. 
The kiss my mother left there when she died. 



Say over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. Though the word re- 
peated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost 
treat it. 
Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain. 

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green com- 
pleted. 
Beloved, 1, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 



Cry : '• Speak once more — thou lovest ! " Who can 
fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall 
roll — 
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 
year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 



If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 

And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 

Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 
When I look up, to drop on a new range 

Of walls and floors — another home than this ? 

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ? 
That's hardest. If to conquer Love has tried. 

To conquer Grief tries more, as all things prove ; 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love. 
Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide 

And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 



First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; i 

And, ever since, it grew more clean and white, I 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " list ! " i 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst \ 

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, ! 

Tlian that first kiss. The second passed in I 
height ( 

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 
Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own 
crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud, and said, " My love, my 
own!" 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: 
I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 



A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW. 



247 



I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

1 love thee freely as men strive for right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 
1 love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, t^ars, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browijing. 



®0 0)ne tDl)o rooulb make a Confession. 

Oh ! leave the past to bury its own dead. 

The past is naught to us, the present all. 
What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed ? 

What need of ghost to grace a festival f 

I would not, if I could, those days recall, 
Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread, 

The lamps are lit, and music plays withal. 
Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid. 
This island is our home. Around it roar 

Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits, and seas. 
What matter in what wreck we reached the shore. 

So we both reached it ? We can mock at these. 
Oh ! leave the past, if past indeed there be ; 
I would not know it ; I would know but thee. 

"WrtrRED ScAWEN Blunt. 



^0 ®ne QEjecnsinjg l)is |)otiertn. 

Ah ! love, impute it not to me a sin 

That my poor soul thus beggared comes to thee. 
My soul a pilgrim was, in search of thine, 

And met these accidents by land and sea. 

The world was hard, and took its usury, 
Its toll for each new night in each new inn ; 

And every road had robber bands to fee ; 
And all, even kindness, must be paid in coin. 
Behold my scrip is empty, my heart bare. 

1 give thee nothing who my all would give. 
My pilgrimage is finished, and I fare 

Bare to my death, unless with thee I live. 
Ah ! give, love, and forgive that I am poor. 
Ah ! take me to thy arms and ask no more. 

Wilfred Scamt;^ Blunt. 



^ Cecture npon tl)e Sliaboro. 

Stand still, and I will read to thee 
A lecture. Love, in love's philosophy. 
These three hours that we have spent 
Walking here, two shadows went 

Along with us, which we ourselves produced : 
But, now the sun is just above our head, 
We do those shadows tread. 

And to brave clearness all things are reduced. 
So whilst our infant loves did grow, 
Disguises did and shadows flow 
From us and from our cares ; but now it is not so. 

That love hath not attained the high'st degree, 

Which is still diligent lest others see ; 

Except our loves at this noon stay, 

We shall new shadows make the other way. 

As the first were made to blind 

Others, these which come behind 

Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, 
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline. 
To me thou falsely thine. 

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. 
The morning shadows wear away, 
But these grow longer all the day ; 
But, oh ! love's day is short, if love decay. 

Love is a growing or full constant light. 
And his short minute, after noon, is night. 

John Donne. 



J)l)illiba anb QIorMbon. 

In the merrie moneth of Maye, 
In a morne by break of daye. 
With a troupe of damsells playing, 
Forth I yode forsooth a-maying ; 

Where anon by a wood side, 
Whenas Maye was in liis pride, 
I espied all alone 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, God wot ; 
He wold love, and she wold not. 
She sayd never man was trewe ; 
He saves none was false to vou. 



248 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He sayde hee had lovde her longe ; 
She saves love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then ; 
She sayes maids must kisse no men, 

Tyll they doe for good and all. 
When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe, 
Never loved a truer youthe. 

Then with many a prettie othe, 
Yea and naye, and f aithe and trothe — 
Such as seelie shepperdes use 
When they will not love abuse — 

Love, that had bene long deluded. 
Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And Phillida with garlands gaye 
Was made the ladye of the Maye. 

Nicholas Breton. 



tlie tol)itc Uosc. 



SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN 
MISTRESS. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Twill blush to find itself less white, 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy. 
As kiss it thou mayest deign. 

With envy pale 'tAvill lose its dye, 
And Yorkish turn again. 

William Congreve and William Somerville. 



£ot)c is a Sickness. 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows. 
Most Vjarren with best using. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 



Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind. 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



ij^riumijl) ot Cliaris. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, 

And well the ear Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty. 
And, enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes ! they do light 

All that Love's world com prise th ; 
Do but look on her hair ! it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 
Than words that soothe her ! 
And from her arched brows such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life, 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 

' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver f 

Or swan's down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? 

Or the nard i' the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh, so sweet is she. 

Ben Jonson. 



i 



DISCOURSE WITH CUPID. 



249 



When Delia on the plain appears, 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love f 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No other voice but hers can hear, 
No other wit but hers approve : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

If she some other youth commend. 
Though I was once his fondest friend, 
His instant enemy I prove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before. 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When, fond of power, of beauty vain, 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

LOBD LrTTELTON. 



IDiscourse toitl) Ctxxpib. 

Noblest Charis, you that are 
Both my fortune and my star ! 
And do govern more my blood, 
Than the various moon the flood ! 
Hear what late discourse of you 
Love and I have had ; and true. 
'Mongst my muses finding me, 
Where he chanced your name to see 
Set, and to this softer strain : 
" Sure," said he, " if I have brain, 
This here sung can be no other 
By description, but my mother ! 
So hath Homer praised her hair ; 
So Anacreon drawn the air 
Of her face, and made to rise. 
Just about her sparkling eyes. 
Both her brows, bent like my bow. 
By her looks I do her know, 



Which you call my shafts. And see ! 

Such my mother's blushes be, 

As the bath your verse discloses 

In her chee'ks of milk and roses ; 

Such as oft I wanton in. 

And above her even chin, 

Have you placed the bank of kisses 

Where, you say, men gather blisses, 

Ripened with a breath more sweet. 

Than when flowers and west winds meet. 

Nay, her white and polished neck. 

With the lace that doth it deck. 

Is my mother's ! hearts of slain 

Lovers, made into a chain ! 

And between each rising breast 

Lies the valley called my nest, 

Where I sit and proyne my wings 

After flight ; and put new strings 

To my shafts ! Her very name. 

With my mother's is the same." 

" I confess all," I replied, 

" And the glass hangs by her side, 

And the girdle 'bout her waist. 

All is Venus ; save unchaste. 

But, alas ! thou seest the least 

Of her good, who is the best 

Of her sex ; but couldst thou. Love, 

Call to mind the forms that strove 

For the apple, and those three 

Make in one, the same were she. 

For this beauty still doth hide 

Something more than thou hast spied. 

Outward grace weak Love beguiles : 

She is Venus when she smiles. 

But she's Juno when she walks. 

And Minerva when she talks." 

Ben Jonson. 



^0 Olelia. 

Drink to me only Avith thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



250 



POEJIS OF LOVE. 



I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Xot of itself, but thee. 

Phtlostkatus. (Greek.) 
Translation of Ben Jonson. 



Song. 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be, 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me ; 
Oh ! then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply, 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her very frowns are fairer far. 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



£ouc illc £ittlc, Cooc ilU Cong. 

Love me little, love me long, 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 

Burneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth not in haste. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true as touch ; 
Love me little, more than such, 

For I fear the end. 
I'm with little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent. 

To be steadfast friend. 



Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give. 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures : 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth 
As now, in my May of youth, 

This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life perse ver ; 
Give me that, with tnie endeavor 

I will it restore ; 
A suit of durance let it be 
For all weathers : that for me, 
For the land or for the sea, 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat. 
Autumn's tempests on it beat. 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain — 

So to thee farewell ! 

ANOXYMOrS. 



Sliall S iEcll? 

Shall I tell you whom 1 love f 
Hearken then a while to me ; 

And if such a woman move 
As I now shall versify. 

Be assured 'tis she or none, 

That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 
As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried. 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be, 
Though perhaps not so to me. 



i 
1 



A JIATCM. . 251 


Eeason masters everr sense. 


Oh. then speak, thou fairest fair ! 


And her virtues grace her birth : 


Kill not him that vows to serve thee : 


Lovelv as all excellence. 


But perfume this neighboring air. 


X: lest in her most of mirth- 


Else dull silence, sure, will starve me ; 


Like iihood enough to prove 


'Tis a word that *s quickly spoken. 


Onlv worth could kindle love. 


W hich, being restrained, a heart is broken. 




BEAmOXT A^TD FlXTCTTKR. 


Such she is : and if vou know 




Such a one as I have sung ; 




Be she brown, or fair, or so 


2, i^atch. 


That she be but somewhat young ; 




Be assured 'tis she, or none. 


If love were what the rose is. 


That I love, and love alone. 


And I were like the leaf. 


Wn.T.TATf BBowiti:. 


Our lives would grow together 




In sad or singing weather, 




Blown fields or flowerful closes. 




Green pleasure or gray grief ; 


Dcantc Clear anb fair. 


If love were what the rose is, 


- 


And I were like the leaf. 


Beauty olear a^d fair. 




Where the air 


If I were what the words are, 


Bather like a perfume dwells ; 


And love were like the tune. 


Where the violet and the rose 


SS ith double sound and single 


Their blue veins in blush disclose. 


Delight our lips would mingle. 


.And come to honor nothing else ; 


With kisses glad as birds are 




That get sweet rain at noon ; 


Where to live near, 


C7 ' 

If I were what the words are, 


And planted there. 


And love were like the tune. 


Is to live, and still live new ; 




\V here to gam a favor is 


If you were life, my darling. 


More than light, perpetual bliss, — 


And I. your love, were death. 


Make me hve by ser\ ing you I 


We'd shine and snow together 




Ere 3Iarch made sweet the weather 


Dear, again back recall 


With daffodil and starhnsr. 


To this light 


.And hours of fruitful breath ; 


A stranger to himseK and all ; 


If vou were life, mv darling. 


Both the wonder and the story 


And L vour love, were death. 


Shall be yours, and eke the glory ; 




1 am your servant, and your thralL 


If vou were thrall to sorrow. 


BEArTIONT A^TD FrETCHJiii. 


And I were page to jov. 




Wed play for lives and seasons. 




With loving looks and treasons. 




And tears of night and morrow. 


Speak, Hove ! 


And laughs of maid and boy ; 




If you were thrall to sorrow. 


Deabest, do not delay me. 


» 1 T M. ' 




And I were page to jov. 


Since, thou knowest. I must be gone : 


Wind and tide, 'tis thought, do slay me ; 


If you were April's lady. 


But 'tis wind that must be blown 


And I were lord in May. 


From that breath, whose native smell 


W e'd throw with leaves for hours. 


Indian odors far exceL 


And draw for davs with flowers. 



253 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Till day like night were shady, 
And night were bright like day ; 

If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain, 
"We'd hunt down Love together, 
Pluck out his flying-feather, 
And teach his feet a measure, 

And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 

Algernon Charles SwrNBURNE. 



(^akc, ol) ! take tliosc Cips atoan. 

Take, oh I take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn, 

And those eyes, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the morn ! 

But my kisses bring again. 

Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 



Hide, oh ! hide those hills of snow 
"VSliich thy frozen bosom bears, 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears. 

But first set my poor heart free, 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 



t}on iUcancr Bcantics. 

You meaner beauties of the night, 
That poorly satisfy our eyes 

More by your number than your light, 
You common people of the skies, 
What are you wlien the moon shall rise ? 

You curious chanters of the wood, 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays. 

Thinking your j)assions understood 
By your weak accents, what's your praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise! 



You violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles known, 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own. 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kmd ? 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



^\)t foncr to tlic (!Mou3-toorms. 

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 
The nightingale does sit so late, 

And, studying all the summer night. 
Her matchless songs does meditate ! 

Ye country comets, that portend 

Xo war, nor prince's funeral. 
Shining unto no other end 

Than to presage the grass's fall ! 

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame 
To wandering mowers shows the way, 

That in the night have lost their aim, 
And after foolish fires do stray ! 

Your courteous lights in vain you waste. 

Since Juliana here is come : 
For she my mind hath so displaced. 

That I shall never find my home. 

Andrew Marvell. 



i!trs. ein. tl31]cclcr. 



UNDER THE NAME OF THE LOST SHEPHERDESS. 

Among the myrtles as I walkt. 

Love and my sighs thus intortalkt: 

Tell me, said I. in deep distress. 

Where I may find my shepherdess. 

Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this! 

In every thing that's sweet, she is. 

In yond' carnation go and seek. 

Where thou shalt find her lip and cheek ; 



1 



PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG. 



253 



In that enamelled pansy by, 

There thou shalt have her curious eye; 

In bloom of peach and rose's bud. 

There waves the streamer of her blood. 

'Tis true, said I ; and thereupon, 

I went to pluck them, one by one, 

To make of parts an union ; 

But on a sudden all were gone. 

At which I stopt ; said Love, these be 

The true resemblances of thee ; 

For as these flowers, thy joys must die. 

And in the turning of an eye ; 

And all thy hopes of her must wither, 

Like those short sweets ere knit together. 

Robert Hekrick. 



IJanglors's toooing Song. 

Love is the blossom where there blows 

Every thing that lives or grows. 

Love doth make the heavens to move, 

And the sun doth bum in love. 

Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 

And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 

Under whose shadows lions wild, 

Softened by love, grow tame and mild. 

Love no med'cine can appease ; 

He bums the fishes in the seas ; 

Not all the skill his wounds can stench ; 

Not all the sea his fire can quench. 

Love did make the bloody spear 

Once a heavy coat to wear ; 

While in his leaves there shrouded lay 

Sweet birds, for love that sing and play : 

And of all love's Joyful flame, 

I the bud and blossom am. 

Only bend thy knee to me, 

Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

See, see the flowers that below 
Now as fresh as morning blow ; 
And of all, the virgin rose. 
That as bright Aurora shows — 
How they all unleaved die, 
Losing their virginity : 
Like unto a summer-shade, 
But now bom, and now they fade. 



Every thing doth pass away ; 

There is danger in delay. 

Come, come gather then the rose, 

Gather it, or it you lose. 

All the sand of Tagus' shore 

Into my bosom casts his ore ; 

All the valleys' swimming com 

To my house is yearly borne ; 

Every grape of every vine 

Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 

While ten thousand kings, as proud 

To carry up my train, have bowed ; 

And a world of ladies send me, 

In my chambers to attend me. 

All the stars in heaven that shine. 

And ten thousand more are mine. 
Only bend thy knee to me. 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

Giles Fletcher. 



(Hastora. 

Like the violet, which alone 

Prospers in some happy shade, 
My Castara lives unknown, 
To no ruder eye betrayed ; 

For she's to herself untrue 
Who delights i' the public view. 

Such is her beauty as no arts 

Have enriched with borrowed grace. 
Her high birth no pride imparts, 
For she blushes in her place. 

Folly boasts a glorious blood ; 
She is noblest being good. 

Cautious, she knew never yet 

What a wanton courtship meant ; 
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, 
In her silence, eloquent. 

Of herself survey she takes, 

But 'tween men no difference makes. 

She obeys with speedy will 

Her grave parents' wise commands ; 
And so innocent, that ill 
She nor acts, nor understands. 
Women's feet run still astray 
If to ill they know the way. 



254 POEMS OF LOVE. 


She sails by that rock, the court. 




Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 


^0 £ncasta» 


And retiredness thinks the port 




Where her fame may anchor cast. 


Oy GOIXG TO THE WARS. 


Virtue safely cannot sit 


Tell me not, sweet. I am unkinde, 


Where vice is enthroned for wit. 


7 

That from the nunnerie 


She holds that day's pleasure best 


Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, 


Where sin waits not on delight ; 


To warre and armes I flee. 


Without mask, or ball, or feast, 




Sweetly spends a winter's night. 


True a new mistresse now I chase. 


O'er that darkness whence is thrust 


The first foe in the field ; 


Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 


And with a stronger faith imbrace 




A sword, a horse, a shield. 


She her throne makes reason climb, 




While wild passions captive lie ; 


Yet this inconstancy is such 


And each article of time. 


As you, too, should adore ; 


Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 


I eoiLld not love thee, deare, so much. 


All her vows religious be, 


Loved I not honor more. 


And she vows her love to me. 


Richard Lovelacb. 


William Habixgton. 




(Z^lic Night piece. 


Disbain tlcturncb. 


TO JULIA. 


He that loves a rosy cheek. 


Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 


Or a coral lip admires. 


The shooting-starres attend thee, 


Or from star-like eyes doth seek 


And the elves also. 


Fuel to maintain his fires, 


Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 


As old Time makes these decay, 


So his flames must waste away. 


N"o Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee. 


But a smooth and steadfast mind. 


Xor snake nor slow- worm bite thee ; 


Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 


But on thy way. 


^ Hearts with equal love combined. 


Xot making stay, 


Kindle never-dying fires. 


Since ghost there's none t' affright thee! 


Where these are not, I despise 




Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 


Let not the darke thee cumber ; 




What though the moon does slumber? 


No tears, Celia, now shall win 


The stars of the night 


My resolved heart to return ; 


Will lend thee their light, 


I have searched thy soul within, 


Like tapers cleare, without number. 


And find nought but pride and scorn ; 


Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 


I have learned thy arts, and now 


7 7 7 

Thus, thus to come unto me ; 


Can disdain as much as thou. i 


And when I shall meet 


Some power, in my revenge, convey 1 


Thy silvery feet. 


That love to her I cast away ! 1 


My soule I'le pour into thee ! 


Thomas Carew. 


Robert Herrick. 


i 



TO LUCASTA. 



255 



(£o "^^itl^ea— ftom prison. 

Whex Love, with unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 

Know no such liberty. 

WTien, like committed linnets I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my king ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free — 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 

ErcHARD Lovelace. 



^0 tma^ia. 

If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that, when I am gone, 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 






But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'swage 
The foaming blue-god's rage : 
For, whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. 
Our faith and troth, 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls: 
Above the highest sphere we meet, 
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate 
Our after-fate, 
And are alive i' th' skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 

Richard Lovelace. 



To thy lover. 

Bear, discover 
That sweet blush of thine that sharaeth 

(When those roses 

It discloses) 
All the flowers that nature nameth. 

In free air 

Flow thy hair. 
That no more Summer's best dresses 

Be beholden 

For their golden 
Locks, to Pbcebus' flaming tresses. 

deliver 

Love his quiver ! 
From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, 

Where Apollo 

Cannot follow. 
Feathered with his mother's sparrows. 

envy not 
(That we die not) 



256 POEMS OF LOVE. 


■ Those dear lips, whose door encloses 


He is dead and gone, lady, 


All the Graces 


He is dead and gone ; 


In their places, 


At his head a grass-green turf, 


Brother pearls, and sister roses. 


At his heels a stone. 


From these treasures 


White his shroud as the mountain snow 


Of ripe pleasures 


Larded with sweet flowers ; 


One bright smile to clear the weather : 


Which be wept to the grave did go 


Earth and heaven 


With true-love showers. 


Thus made even, 


William Shakespeare. 


Both will be good friends together. 




The air does woo thee ; 
Winds cling to thee ; 


tt\ lis Hiss anb part. 


Might a word once fly from out thee, 


Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, — 


Storm and thunder 


Xay, I have done, you get no more of me ; 


Would sit under. 


And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 


And keep silence round about thee. 


That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 


But if nature's 


■ 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, ; 


Common creatures 


And when we meet at any time again, 


So dear glories dare n ot borrow ; 


Be it not seen in either of our brows 


Yet thy beauty 


That we one jot of former love retain. 


Owes a duty 




To my loving, lingering sorrow. 


Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. 




"Wlien, his pulse failing. Passion speechless lies. 


When, to end me, 


"WTien Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 


Death shall send me 


And Innocence is closing up his eyes. 


All his terrors to aiiright me ; 


Xow if thou would'st, when all have given him over. 


Thine eyes' graces 


From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 


Gild their faces. 


Michael Draytox. 


And those terrors shall delight me. 


^ 


When my dying 


Song. 


Life is flying, 
Those sweet airs that often slew me 


Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 


Shall revive me, 


When June is past, the fading rose ; 


Or reprieve me. 


For in your beauty's orient deep. 


And to many deaths renew me. 


These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 


Richard Crashaw. 


Ask me no more whither do stray l 
The golden atoms of the day ; * 






For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 


Song. 


Those powders to enrich your hair. 


How should I your true love know 


Ask me no more whither doth haste 


From another one? 


The nightingale when May is past ; 


By his cockle hat and staff, 


For in your sweet, dividing throat 


And his sandal shoon. 


She winters, and keeps warm her note. 



COME AWAY, DEATH. 



257 



Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Cakew. 



pi)ilomela's (Dire 

THAT SHE SUNG IN HER ARBOR. 

Sitting by a river's side 
Where a silent stream did glide, 
Muse 1 did of many things 
That the mind in quiet brings. 
I 'gan think how some men deem 
Gold their god ; and some esteem 
Honor is the chief content 
That to man in life is lent ; 
And some others do contend 
Quiet none like to a friend. 
Others hold there is no wealth 
Compared to a perfect health ; 
Some man's mind in quiet stands 
When he's lord of many lands. 
But I did sigh, and said all this 
Was but a shade of perfect bliss : 
And in my thoughts I did approve 
Nought so sweet as is true love. 
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these. 
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees - 
With folded arms and lips meeting. 
Each soul another sweetly greeting ; 
For by the breath the soul fleeteth. 
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 
If love be so sweet a thing, 
That such happy bliss doth bring, 
Happy is love's sugared thrall ; 
But unhappy maidens all 
Who esteem your virgin blisses 
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 
No such quiet to the mind 
As true love with kisses kind ; 
But if a kiss prove unchaste. 
Then is true love quite disgraced. 



Though love be sweet, learn this of me, 
No sweet love but honesty. 

Robert Greene. 



Clome aio^ai^, lUeatl). 

Come away, come away, death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ! 

Fly away, fly away, breath : 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

Oh, prepare it ; 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 
On my black coffin let there be strown ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. 
A thousand, thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, Oh ! where 
Sad true-love never find my grave, 
To weep there. 

William Shakespeare. 



When, cruel fair one, I am slain 

By thy disdain. 
And, as a trophy of thy scorn, 

To some old tomb am borne, 
Thy fetters must their powers bequeath 
To those of death ; 

Nor can thy flame immortal burn. 
Like monumental fires within an urn : 
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove 
There is more liberty in death than love. 

And when forsaken lovers come 

To see my tomb, 
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd, 

And, (as a victor) proud 
To view the spoils thy beauty made. 
Press near my shade ; 

Lest thy too cruel breath or name 
Should fan my ashes back into a flame, 
And thou, devoured by this revengful fire. 
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire. 



^9 



258 POEMS OF LOVE. 


But if cold earth or marble must 


With groping hands that never clasp, and lips 


Conceal my dust, 


Calling in vain to ears that never hear, 


Whilst, hid in some dark ruins, I 


They seek each other all their weary days 


Dumb and forgotten lie, 


And die unsatisfied : and this is Fate. 


The pride of all thy victory 


Anonymous. 


Will sleep with me ; 




And they who should attest thy glory, 


. 


Will or forget or not believe this story. 


tol)cn (j;iiou art ^car ille. 


Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, 


Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast. 


When thou art near me. 


Thomas Stanley. 


Sorrow seems to fly. 




And then I think, as well I may, 




That on this earth there is no one 


CotJe not ille. 


More blest than I. 


' 


Love not me for comelv grace. 


But when thou leav'st me, 


For my pleasing eye or face, 


Doubts and fears arise, 


Nor for anv outward part. 


And darkness reigns. 


%i 1. J 

No, nor for my constant heart ; 


Where all before was light. 


For those may fail or turn to ill, 


The sunshine of my soul 


So thou and I shall sever ; 


Is in those eyes. 


Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 


And when they leave me 


And love me still, but know not why. 


All the world is night. 


So hast thou the same reason still 




To doat upon me ever. 


But when thou art near me, 


Anonymous. 


Sorrow seems to fly, 




And then I feel, as well I may. 




That on this earth there dwells not one 




So blest as I. 


fate. 


Lady John Scott, 


Two shall be bom the whole wide world apart, 


. 


And speak in different tongues, and have no 
thought 


^\\t illilk-maib^s Song. 


Each of the other's being, and no heed ; 


THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 


And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands 




Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death ; 


Come live with me, and be my love, 


And we will all the pleasures prove 


And, all unconsciously, shape every act 
And bend each wandering step to this one 
end — 


That valleys, groves, hills, and fields. 


Woods or steepy mountain yields. 


That one day out of darkness they shall meet 


There will we sit upon the rocks. 


And read life's meaning in each other's eyes. 


J ^ 

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 




By shallow rivor.-^ to who.«;e falls 


And two shall walk some narrow way of life, 


Melodious birds sing madrigals. J 


So nearly side by side that should one turn 


O O ^H 


Ever so little space to left or right 


There will I make thee beds of roses 1 


They needs must stand acknowledged face to 


With a thousand fragrant posies; 


face. 


A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 


And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet, 


Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 



I 



MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE, 



259 



A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fur-lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
For thy delight each May morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 

Chkistophek Marlowe. 



THE nymph's reply. 

If that the world and love were young. 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb. 
And all complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten — 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs — 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed. 
Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
Then those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



iHS miear anb (©nip £ot)e. 

PART FIRST. 

My dear and only love, I pray, 

This noble world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchie. 
For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhore, 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone, 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small. 
That puts it not unto the touch, ' 

To win or lose it all. 

But I must rule and govern still 

And always give the law. 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe. 
But 'gainst my battery if I find 

Thou shun'st the prize so sore 
As that thou set'st me up a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

If in the empire of thy heart. 

Where I should solely be. 
Another do pretend a part, 

And dares to vie with me ; 
Or if committees thou erect. 

And go on such a score, 
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt be constant then, 

And faithful of thy word, 
I'll make thee glorious by my pen, 

And famous by my sword. 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, 

And love thee evermore. 



260 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



PART SECOND. 

My clear and only love, take heed, 

Lest thou thyself expose, 
And let all longing lovers feed 

Upon such looks as those. 
A marble wall then build about, 

Beset without a door ; 
But if thou let thy heart fly out, 

111 never love thee more. 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, 

Make any breach at all ; 
Nor smoothness of their language plot 

Which way to scale the wall ; 
Nor balls of wild-fire love consume 

The shrine which I adore ; 
For if such smoke about thee fume, 

I'll never love thee more. 

1 think thy virtues be too strong 

To suffer by surprise ; 
Those victualled by my love so long, 

The siege at length must rise. 
And leave thee ruled in that health 

And state thou wast before ; 
But if thou turn a commonwealth, 

I'll never lo,ve thee more. 

Or if by fraud, or by consent. 

Thy heart to mine come, 
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont, 

Nor march by tuck of drum ; 
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up, 

Tliy falsehood to deplore, 
And bitterly will sigh and weep. 

And never love thee more. 

I'll do with tliee as Nero did 

When Rome was set on fire. 
Not only all relief forbid. 

But to a hill retire. 
And scorn to shed a tear to see 

Tliy sjiirit grown so ])()or ; 
But smiling sing, until I die, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Yet, for the love I Imre thee once, 
Lest that thy name should die, 

A monument of marble-stone 
The truth shall testifie ; 



That every pilgrim passing by 

May pity and deplore 
My case, and read the reason why 

I can love thee no more. 

The golden laws of love shall be 

Upon this pillar hung, — 
A simple heart, a single eye, 

A true and constant tongue ; 
Let no man for more love pretend 

Than he has hearts in store ; 
True love begun shall never end ; 

Love one and love no more. 

Then shall thy heart be set by mine, 

But in far different case ; 
For mine was true, so was not thine, 

But lookt like Janus' face. 
For as the waves with every wind, 

So sail'st thou every shore, 
And leav'st ray constant heart behind, — 

How can I love thee more ? 

My heart shall with the sun be fixed 

For constancy most strange. 
And thine shall with the moon be mixed, 

Delighting ay in change. 
Thy beauty shined at first more bright, 

And woe is me therefore. 
That ever I found thy love so light 

I could love thee no more ! 

The misty mountains, smoking lakes, 

The rocks' resounding echo, 
The whistling wind that murmur makes, 

Shall with me sing hey ho ! 
The tossing seas, the tuml)ling boats, 

Tears dropj^ing from each shore. 
Shall tune with me their turtle notes — 

I'll never love thee more. 

As doth the turtle, chaste and true, 

Her fellow's death regrete, 
And daily mourns for his adieu, 

And ne'er renews her mate ; 
So, though thy faith was never fast. 

Which grieves me wondrous sore, 
Yet I shall live in love so chaste, 

That I shall love no more. 



WELCOME, 


WELCOME. 261 


And when all irallants ride about 


Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 


These monuments to view. 


Far more welcome than the spring ; 


Whereon is written, in and out, 


Me that parteth from you never. 


Thou traitorous and untrue ; 


Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 


Then in a passion they shall pause. 


WiT.T.TAM BRO"WrSE. 


And thus say, sighing sore, 




" Alas I he had too just a cause 




Xever to love thee more." 


Blest as tl}c immortal ^obs. 


And when that tracing goddess Fame 


Blest as the immortal gods is he. 


From east to west shall flee, 


The youth who fondly sits by thee. 


She shall record it, to thy shame, 


And hears and sees thee all the while 


How thou hast loved me ; 


Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 


And how in odds our love was such 




As few have been before ; 


'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 


Thou loved too many, and I too much, 


And raised such tumults in my breast : 


So I can love no more. 


For while I gazed, in transport tost, 




Mv breath was gone, mv voice was lost : 


James Graha3i. 3rARQOs of Moxteose. 


• O - » 




My bosom glowed : the subtle flame 




Ran quick through all my vital frame : 


toclcomc, iDckomc. 


O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 




My ears with hollow murmurs rung ; 


Welcome, welcome, do I sing. 




Far more welcome tJian the spring ; 


In deu V damps my limbs were chilled; 


He that parteth from you never, 


My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ; 


Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 


My feeble pulse forgot to play — 


»/ l/ JL </ *: 


I fainted, simk. and died away. 


Love, that to the voice is near, 


Sappho. (Greek.) ; 


Breaking from your ivory pale, 


TTanslation of Axbrose Philips. 

1 


Need not walk abroad to hear 




The delightful nightingale. 






Hulnasat;, ntti Ucinbccr. 


Love, that stiU looks on your eyes, 


"" 


Though the winter have begun 


A LAPLAXD SONG. 


To benumb our arteries, 


KuLXASATZ, my reindeer. 


Shall not want the summer's sun. 


We have a long journey to go ; 


Love, that still may see your cheeks, 


The moors are vast. 


Where all rareness stdl reposes. 


And we must haste. 


Is a fool if e'er he seeks 


Our strength, I fear, 


Other lilies, other roses. 


Will faU, if we are slow ; 




And so 


Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 


Our songs will do. 


And perceives your breath in kissing. 




All the odors of the fields. 


Kaige. the watery moor. 


Xever. never shall be missing. 


Is pleasant unto me. 


o 


Though long it be. 


Love, that question would anew 


Since it doth to my mistress lead, 


What fair Eden was of old, 


Whom I adore : 


Let him rightly study you. 


The Kilwa moor 


And a brief of that behold. 


I ne'er again will tread. | 



26-: 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Thoughts filled my mind, 
"Whilst I through Kaige passed 
Swift as the wind. 
And my desire 
Winged with impatient fire ; 
My reindeer, let us haste I 

So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain — 

Behold my mistress there, 
With decent motion walking o'er the plain. 
Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 
Look yonder, where 

She washes in the lake I 
See, while she swims. 
The water from her purer limbs 
New clearness take I 

AxOXYMOr; 



fines to an Nubian ^ir. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 
"WTien the winds are breathing low. 

And the stars are shining bright ; 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? 

To thv chamber window, sweet ! 

r 

The wandering airs, they faint 

On the dai'k the silent stream ; 
The champak odoi*s fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart. 
As I must die on thine. 

Beloved as thou art ! 

Oh, lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint. I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelid* pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast : 
Oh. press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last ! 

Percv Btsshe Shelley. 



illaib of ^tt)cns, ere xdc Part. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Tmt\ fxov. ads ayairu. 

By those tresses unconfined. 
Wooed by each -£gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zt^ fjLOv, (rds ayoKw. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zarr] nov. ads ayairu). 

Maid of Athens 1 I am gone. 

Think of me. sweet, when alone. 

Though I fly to Istamlx)l, 

Athens holds my heart and soul. 

Can I cease to love thee f Xo ! 

ZwTj /xov. ads ayairu). 

Lord Btron. 



Gonnct. j 

The might of one fair face sublimes my love, , 

For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; j 
Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires. j 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, i 

Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; 
For oh I how good, how beautiful, must be , 

The God that made so good a thing as thee, ' 

So fair an image of the heavenly Dove. i 

Forgive me if I cannot turn awav 

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, | 
For they are guiding stars. Ix^nignly given < 

To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
I live and love in God's peculiar light. 

Michel Axgelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of J. E. Taylor. 



THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 



263 



The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever, 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine 1 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother ; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea. 
What are all these kissings worth. 

If thou kiss not me *? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



®l)c (^irl of Olabi]. 

Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthened flow her raven tresses. 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 

And curled to give her neck caresses. 

Our English maids are long to woo. 

And frigid even in possession : 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at love's confession ; 
But, born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordained the Spanish maid is. 
And who, when fondly, fairly won, 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 



The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold— 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long, and love you dearly. 

The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

And when, beneath the evening star. 

She mingles in the gay bolero ; 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero ; 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
Or joins devotion's choral band 

To chant the sweet and hallowed vesper : 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her. 
Then let not maids less fair reprove. 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is. 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 

Lord Byron. 



®0 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it. 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair, 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 



264 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou, accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not : 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Perct Btsshe Shelley. 



Song. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for ray head. 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ! 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Mary ! 
No fond regi'et must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary ! 

A time will come with feeling fraught ; 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall bo a thought on thee, Mary ! 
And if returned from conquered foes, 
How blithely will the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Gtan^as for i^lusic. 

There be none of beauty's daughters 
With a magic like thee; 

And like music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me : 



When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep ; 

So the spirit bows before thee. 

To listen and adore thee 

With a full but soft emotion. 

Like the swell of summer's ocean. 

Lord Byrox. 



€a' tl)e ^otDcs to X\)c Hnoracs. 

Ca' the yowes to the hioices, 
Cd' them where the heather grows, 
Co' them where the hurnie rows, 
3Iy honnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a faulding let us gang. 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 

Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 

O'er the waves that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
Where at moon.«;hine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Gliaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast .stown my very heart ; 
I can die, but canna part, 
Mv bonnie dearie. 



i 



i 



BE BE -S' A HEALTH . 


TO AXE I LO'E DEAR. 265 


\S hile waters wimple to the sea. 


m ne'er blame my partial fancy — 


While dar blinks in the lift sae hie. 


Xaething could resist my Xancy : 


Till clay-cauld death shall blin" mv ee, 


But to see her was to love her, 


Ye shall be mv dearie. 


Love but her, and love for ever. 


Ca' the yowes to the Jcnowes, 
Ca them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the humi'e rows. 
My honnie dearie. 

KOBEBT BCBXS. 


Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Xever met — or never parted, 
\\ e had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest I 




Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 


fere's a ^ealtli to ^nc J lo'c bear. 


Thine l>e ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 


Mere 's a health to ane IJo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear ; 

TJiou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. 

And soft as the parting tear — Jessy I 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 

Ae fareweel. alas I for ever I 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 

Waning sighs and groans I'U wage thee. 


Altho* thou maun never be mine, 


KOBEKT BUKXS. 


Altho' even hope is denied, 




'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 




Than aught in the world beside — Jessy I 


(Tljcrc's nac £nck about tlic ^onsc. 


I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 


A^'D are ye sure the news is true i 


As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 


And are ye sure he's weel ? 


But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 


Is this a time to think of wark ? 


For then I am locked in thv arms — Jessv I 


Te jauds. fling by your wheeL 


I guess by the dear angel smile. 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
Bat why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy I 


Is this a time to think of wark, 

Wlien Colin's at the door f 
Gie me my cloak I I'U to the quay 

And see him come ashore. 

For there's nae luck about the house, 


Here 's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear. 


There 's nae luck ava ; 


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


Tliere's little pleasure in the house, 


Ttiou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 


, Wlien our gudeman's awa\ 


And soft as the parting tear — Jessy ! 




EoBEP.T Bmxs. 


Rise up and mak' a clean fireside ; 




Put on the muckle pot : 




Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, 


i^arctDcli to Xancp. 


And Jock his Sunday coat : 
And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, 


Ae fond kiss and then we sever I 


Their hose as white as snaw ; 


Ae fareweel. alas I for ever I 


It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 


Deep in heait-w rung tears 111 pledge thee ; 


For he's been long awa'. 


"Warring sighs and groans 111 wage thee. 




\N ho shall say that fortune grieves him, 


There 's twa fat hens upon the bank, 


While the star of hope she leaves him ? 


Been fed this month and mair ; 


Me. nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 


Mak* haste and thraw their necks alx)Ut, 


Dark despair around benights me. 


That Colin weel may fare ; 



266 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And mak' the table neat and clean, 
Gar ilka thing look braw ; 

It's a' for love of my gudeman, 
For he's been long awa'. 



O gi'e me down my bigonet, 

My bishop satin gown, 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin 's come to town. 
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 

My hose o' pearl blue ; 
'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman. 

For he's baith leal and true. 

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath 's like caller air ! 
His very foot has music in't. 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet. 

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, 

That thrilled through my heart, 
They 're a' blown by ; I ha'e him safe. 

Till death we'll never part : 
But what puts parting in my head ? 

It may be far awa' ; 
The present moment is our ain, 

The neist we never saw. 

Since Colin 's weel, I'm weel content, 

I ha'e nae more to crave ; 
Could I but live to mak' him blest, 

I'm blest above the lave : 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet. 

For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There \s nae tnck ara ; 
There's little pleasure in the house, 

When our gudeman '« awa\ 

Jean Adah. 



^ Ec5, ttcb Uase. 

Oh, my luve 's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly si^rung in June ; 

Oh, my luve 's like the melodic 
That's sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry — 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands of life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



Egbert Burns. 



®l)c £ass o' I3aUocl)mtilc. 

'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade tho pearls did hang ; 
The zephyr wantoned round the bean 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seemed the while. 
Except where green-wood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmylc. 

With careless step I onward strayed ; 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy ; 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy. 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile ; 
Perfection whispered, jjassing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in autumn mild. 

When roving thro' tiio garden gay. 
Or wandering in a lonely wild ; 



I 



ANNIE . 


LAURIE. 267 


But woman, nature's darling child ! 


Her voice is low and sweet, 


There all her charms she does compile ; 


And she's a' the world to me ; 


Ev'n there her other works are foiled 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 




Douglas or Fikgt,and. 


Oh, had she been a country maid. 




And I the happy country swain. 




Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 


^bbress to a Cabg. 


That ever rose in Scotland's plain, 


Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 


Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 


With joy, with rapture, I would toil. 


On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 


And nightly to my bosom strain 


My plaidie to the angry airt. 


The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 




Or did misfortune's bitter storms 


Then pride might climb the slippery steep 


Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 


Where fame and honors lofty shine ; 


Thy bield should be my bosom. 


And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 


To share it a', to share it a'. 


Or downward seek the Indian mine. 




Give me the cot below the pine, 


Or were I in the wildest waste. 


To tend the flocks or till the soil. 


Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare. 


And every day have joys divine 


The desert were a paradise 


With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 


If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 


Egbert Burns. 


Or were I monarch o' the globe. 




Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 




The brightest jewel in my crown 


^nnie lEanrie. 


Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 




Egbert Burns. 


Maxwelton braes are bonnie 




Where early fa's the dew, 




And it's there that Annie Laurie 


iJl)ou IiflBt botDcb bn tliti fa\\\), tng 


Gie'd me her promise true ; 


Jeanie. 


Gie'd me her promise true. 




Which ne'er forgot will be ; 


Thou hast vowed by thy faith, my Jeanie, 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


By that pretty white hand o' thine, 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 


And by all the lowing stars in heaven. 




That thou wad aye be mine ! 


Her brow is like the snaw-drif t ; 


And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 


Her throat is like the swan ; 


And by that kind heart o' thine, 


Her face it is the fairest 


By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven. 


That e'er the sun shone on ; 


That thou shalt aye be mine ! 


That e'er the sun shone on, 




And dark blue is her ee ; 


Then foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands, 


And for bonnie Annie Laurie 


And the heart wad part sic love ; 


I'd lay me doune and dee. 


But there 's nae hand can loose the band. 




But the finger of Him above. 


Like dew on the go wan lying 


Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 


Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 


An' my clothing e'er so mean, 


Like the winds in summer sighing. 


I should lap up rich in the faulds of love. 


Her voice is low and sweet ; 


Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 



268 POEMS OF LOVE. ' 


Her white arm wad be a pillow to me, 


Return again, fair Leslie ! 


Far softer than the down ; 


Return to Caledonie ! 


And Love wad winnow o'er us, his kind, kind 


That we may brag we hae a lass 


wings, 


There's nane again sae bonnie. 


And sweetly we'd sleep, an' soun'. 


Robert Burns. 


Come here to me, thou lass whom I love, 




Come here and kneel wi' me ; 




The morn is full of the presence of God, 


i^ttir Jncs. 


And I canna pray without thee. 


^m^ "^ ♦ ^ ^■S' 9 w ^ ^•^ • 




Oh saw ye not fair Ines % 


The morn-wind is sweet amang the new flow- 


She's gone into the west, , 


ers, 


To dazzle when the sun is down, 


The wee birds sing saft on the tree ; 


And rob the world of rest ; 


Our gudeman sits in the bonnie sunshine. 


She took our daylight with her, 


And a blithe old bodie is he. 


The smiles that we love best, 


The Beuk maun be ta"en whan he comes hame, 


With morning blushes on her cheek. 


Wi' the holy psalmodie ; 


And pearls upon her breast. 


And I will speak of thee whan I pray, 




And thou maun speak of me. 


Oh turn again, fair Ines, 


Allan Cunningham. 


Before the fall of night, 




For fear the moon should shine alone. 




And stars unrivalled bright; 




And blessed will the lover be 


Connie £csUe. 


That walks beneath their light. 




And breathes tlie love against thy cheek 


Oh saw ye bonnie Leslie 


I dare not even write ! 


As she gaed o'er the border ? 




She's gane, like Alexander, 


Would I had been, fair Ines, 


To spread her conquests further. 


That gallant cavalier 




Who rode so gayly by thy side. 


To see her is to love her. 


And whispered thee so near ! 


And love but her for ever ; 


Were there no bonny dames at home. 


For nature made her what she is, 


Or no true lovers here, 


And ne'er made sic anither. 


That he should cross the seas to win 




The dearest of the dear "? 


Thou art a queen, fair Leslie — 




Thy subjects we, before thee ; 


I saw thee, lovely Ines, 


Thou art divine, fair Leslie — 


Descend along the shore. 


The hearts o' men adore thee. 


With bands of noble gentlemen, 




And banners waved before ; 


The deil he could na scaith thee. 


And gentle youth and maidens gay. 


Or aught that wad belang thee ; 


And snowy plumes they wore ; 


He'd look into thy bonnie face. 


It would have been a beauteous dream, 


And say, •* I canna wrang thee. " 


If it had been no more ! 


The powers aboon will tent thee ; 


Alas ! alas ! fair Ines ! . 


Misfortune slia'na steer thee; 


She went away with song, J| 


Thou "rt like themselves sae lovely, 


With music waiting on her steps, 1 


That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 


And shoutings of the throng; 1 



GO ^YHERE GLORY WAITS THEE! 269 


But some were sad, and felt no mirth. 


And, at night, when gazing 


But only music's "wrong, 


On the gay hearth blazing. 


In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell \ 


Oh still remember me ! 


To her you've loved so long. 


Then should music, stealing 




All the soul of feeling, 


Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! 


To thy heart appealing. 


That vessel never bore 


Draw one tear from thee, 


So fair a lady on its deck, 


Then let memory bring thee 


Xor danced so light before. 


Strains I used to sing thee ; 


Alas for pleasure on the sea, 


Oh then remember me ! 


And sorrow on the shore ! 


Thomas Mooke. 


The smile that blest one lover's heart 




Has broken many more I 




Thomas Hood. 


i^lg to t()c Dcsctt. 




Fly to the desert, fly with me ! 


(©0 tDl)ere (6l0rn roaits @^hee! 


Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 


■ / >^ r 


But, oh I the choice what heart can doubt, 


Go where glory waits thee ; 


Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 


But, while fame elates thee. 




Oh still remember me ! 


Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there 


When the praise thou meetest 


The acacia waves her yellow hair, 


To thine ear is sweetest. 


Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 


Oh then remember me ? 


For flowering in a wilderness. 


Other arms may press thee. 




Dearer fi-iends caress thee. 


Our sands are bare ; but down their slope 


All the joys that bless thee 


The silvery-footed antelope 


Sweeter far may be ; 


As gracefully and gayly springs 


But when friends are nearest. 


As o'er the marble courts of kings. 


And when Joys are dearest. 




Oh then remember me ! 


Then come \ thy Arab maid will be 




The loved and lone acacia-tree — 


When, at eve, thou rovest 


The antelope, whose feet shall bless 


By the star thou lovest, 


With their light sound thy loneliness. 


Oh then remember me ! 




Think, when home returning. 


Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 


Bright we've seen it burning ; 


An instant sunshine through the heart, 


Oh thus remember me \ 


As if the soul that minute caught 


Oft as summer closes. 


Some treasure it through life had sought ; 


When thine eye reposes 




On its lingering roses, 


As if the very lips and eyes 


Once so loved by thee. 


Predestined to have all our sighs, 


Think of her who wove them, 


And never be forgot again, 


Her who made thee love them ; 


Sparkled and spoke before us then I 


Oh then remember me ! 






So came thy every glance and tone, 


When, around thee dying. 


WTien first on me they breathed and shone ; 


Autumn leaves are lying, 


New as if brought from other spheres, 


Oh then remember me ! 


Yet welcome as if loved for years. 



270 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn ; 

Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid and rudely break 
Her worshipped image from its base, 
To give to me the ruined place, 

Then, fare thee well ! I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! 

Thomas Moore. 



Cotjeln iHarn Donnelln. 

LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! 
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the 

rest ; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where 

it will. 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before 

me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a 

rock, 
IIow clear they are, how dark they are ! and they 

give me many a shock ; 
Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with 

a shower. 
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in 

its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 

lifted up. 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a 

china cup ; 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so 

fine — 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a 

twine. 



The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all 

before — 
No pretty girl for miles around was missing from 

the floor ; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but she 

was gay ; 
She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my 

heart away ! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 

so complete, 
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her feet ; j 
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so ' 

much praised ; 
But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her i 

voice she raised. 

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you i 

sung ; I 

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside '\ 

my tongue. ] 

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on ! 

both your hands, ; 

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger i 

stands. , 

I 
Oh, you're the flower of womankind, in country or j 

in town ; 
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. ; 
If some great lord should come this way and see ! 

your beauty bright, ; 

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. \ 

Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall, \ 
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains i 

fall ; \ 

Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and | 

small, i 

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only j 

wall ! 

0, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my dis- , 

tress — 
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never ' 

wish it less ; 
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 

poor and low. 

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 

may go ! 

William Allinoham. 



THE BULE'S F THIS BONNET 0' MINE. 



271 



^\)t ?I3ule's I t[)is jBonnet 0' mine. 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine : 

My ribbins '11 never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, 

For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone t'other day 

(Aw wiir gooin' for wayter to th' well), 
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May, 

Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will ! 

When he took my two honds into his. 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between, 
An' aw durst n't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en. 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There's never a mortal con tell 
Heaw happy aw felt — for, thae knows, 

One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : 

To let it eawt wouldn't be reet. 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; 

So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet. 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel, 

Though it isn't a thing one should own, 
Iv aw'd th' pikein' 0' th' world to mysel', 

Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; 

What would to do iv 'twur thee ? 
" Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, 

An' a farrantly bargain he'd be ; 
For Jamie's as gradely a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; 

An' may th' best o' th' job when it's done ! " 

Eh, dear ! but it's time to be gwon : 

Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon. 

An' aw would n't for th' world be too late. 
Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : 

Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? 
" Be off, lass — thae looks very weel ; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " 

Edwin Wauqh, 



^n Srisii iHelobg. 

"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil! rise up from your 
wheel — 
Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
ning; 
Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; 
Half the parish is there, and the dance is begin- 
ning. 
The sun is gone down ; but the full harvest moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
valley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft, loving things 
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." 

With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the while. 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
glancing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
So she couldn't but choose to, go off to the 
dancing. 
And now on the green the glad groups are seen — 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choos- 
ing; 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
Neil — 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of 
refusing. 

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee. 

And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in 
motion ; 
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the 
ground — 
The maids move around just like swans on the 
ocean. 
Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the 
doe's — 
Now cosily retiring, now boldly advancing ; 
Search the world all around from the sky to the 
ground, 
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
dancing I 

Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of 
deep blue, 
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
mildly — 



272 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 

form — 

Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 

wildly ? 

Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 

love ; 

The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, 

" Dance light, for my heart it lies under your 

feet, love ! " 

John Francis Waller. 



Song. 

Love me if I live ! 

Love me if I die ! 
What to me is life or death, 

So that thou be nigh ? 

Once I loved thee rich, 

Now I love thee poor ; 
Ah I what is there I could not 

For thy sake endure ? 

Kiss me for my love ! 

Pay me for my pain ! 
Come I and murmur in my ear 

How thou lov'st again ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



tocrc 2 but I)is (Droit tOifc. 

Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear; 
I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him. 

So faint and so tender hi.>=; heart would but hear: 
I'd pull the wild V)lossoms from valley and highland : 

And there at his feet T would lay them all down : 
I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island, 

Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. 

There's a rose by his dwelling — I'd tend the lone 
treasure. 
That he might have flowers when the summer 
would come : 
There's a harp in his hall — I would wake its sweet 
measure. 
For he must have music to brighten his home. 



Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard 
him, I 

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
For every kind glance my whole life would award I 
him — 
In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd cheer. 

My heart is a fount welling upward for ever, I 

When I think of my true-love, by night or by ' 
day ; 
That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river ! 

Which gushes for ever and sings on its way. 
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to re- 
pose in. 
Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo — i 
Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing, 
To rise like the morning star, darling, for you ! 

Maby Downing. 



Ql\)c toclcomc. 

Come in the evening, or come in the moniing — 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than 

ever. 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
sever ! " 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ! 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my 

bosom ; 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you ; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer- 
vexed farmer. 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

me. 
Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love 
me. 



% 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 



We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the 

eyrie ; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the 

fairy ; 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give 
her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you — " Love, as unchange- 
ably beaming, 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream- 
ing; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
And our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the of tener you come here the more I'll adore 
you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted : 
Red is ray cheek that they told me was blighted : 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
sever ! " 

Thomas Davis. 



QTomc into \\\z (Sarben, !iSX^Vi^. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has fiown ! 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ! 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon : 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 



?o 



And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
W^hen will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
'Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine ! " 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For 1 heard your ri\Tilet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March- wind sighs. 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes. 

To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake. 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither ! the dances are done ; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear. 
She is coming, my life, my fate ! 



\ 



274 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ! "' 
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ! " 

The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear," 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, ray own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead. 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tenxtson. 



Summer Dags. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We walked together in the wood : 

Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We strayed from mom till evening came ; 

We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
We walked mid poppies red as flame, 

Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 
And always wished our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
Or else she read some graceful ])ook. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees. 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And, in the sunlight and the breeze, 
We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 

While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, 

We feasted, with no grace but song : 

We plucked wild strawb'ries, ripe and red, 

In summer, when the days were long. 



We loved, and yet we knew it not, 

For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are long, 

Alone 1 wander, muse alone ; 
I see her not ; but that old song 

Under the fragi'ant wind is blown, 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood ; 

But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 

And half I see, so glad and good. 
The honest daylight of her eyes. 
That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In summer, when the days are long, 

I love her as we loved of old ; 
My heart is light, my step is strong ; 

For love brings back those hours of gold, 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Anonymous. 



^ Summer tlcminiscencc. 

I HEAR no more the locust beat 

His shrill loud dnim through all the day ; 
I miss the mingled odors sweet 

Of clover and of scented hay. 

Xo more I hear the smothered song 

From hedges guarded thick with thorn : 

The days grow brief, the niglits are long, 
The light comes like a ghost at morn. 

I sit before my fire alone, 

And idly dream of all the past : 

I think of moments that are flown — 
Alas 1 they were too sweet to last : 

The warmth that filled the languid noons, 
The purple waves of trembling haze, 

The li(iuid light of silver moons. 
The summer sunset's golden blaze. 



I 

\ 



RUTH. 



I feel the soft winds fan my cheek, 
I hear them murmur through the rye, 

I see the milky clouds that seek 
Some nameless harbor in the sky. 

The stile beside the spreading pine, 
The pleasant fields beyond the grove, 

The lawn where, underneath the vine, 
She sang the song I used to love. 

The path along the windy beach, 
That leaves the shadowy linden-tree, 

And goes by sandy capes that reach 
Their shining arms to clasp the sea. 

I view them all, I tread once more 
In meadow-grasses cool and deep ; 

I walk beside the sounding shore, 
I climb again the wooded steep. 

Oh, happy hours of pure delight I 

Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss ! 

Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright, 
Each mom and evening seemed to kiss ! 

And that whereon I saw her first, 
Wliile angling in the noisv brook. 

When through the tangled wood she bui'st ; 
In one small hand a glove and book, 

As with the other, dimpled, white, 
She held the slender boughs aside, 

Wliile through the leaves the yellow light 
Like golden water seemed to glide, 

And broke in ripples on her neck, 
And played like fire around her hat, 

And slid adown her form to fleck 
The moss-grown rock on which I sat. 

She standing rapt in sweet surprise. 
And seeming doubtful if to turn ; 

Her novel, as I raised my eyes, 
Dropped down amid the tall green fern. 

This day and that — the one so bright, 

The other like a thing forlorn ; 
To-morrow, and the early light 

Will shine upon her marriage mom. 



For when the mellow autumn flushed 
The thickets where the chestnut fell, 

And in the vales the maple blushed, 
Another came who knew her well, 

Who sat with her below the pine. 

And with her through the meadow moved, 

And underneath the purpling vine 
She sang to him the song I loved. 

2s ATHA2frEL GkAHAM ShEPHERD. 



• 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 

Clasped by the golden light of morn, 

Like the sweetheart of the sun, 

Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened ; such a blush 
Li the midst of brown was bom. 

Like red poppies grown with com. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat. with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim. 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure. I said. Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood. 



:\t tlic Clinrcli (Bate. 

Although I enter not. 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover ; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait. 

Expectant of her. 



276 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout. 

And noise and humming. 
They've hushed the minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell ; 

She's coming, she's coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast. 

And hastening hither. 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes — she's here, she's past! 

May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! • 

Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly., 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits, who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate. 

Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



6l)e is a iUaib of Artless (Brace. 

She is a maid of artless grace. 
Gentle in foi'in, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner. 

That suilest on the sea. 
If ship, or sail, or evening star. 

Be half so fair as she \ 

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier. 

Whose shining arms I see. 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou swain that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or niountain-ridge, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Gil Vicente. (Portuguese.) 
Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 



iHn Cooe. 

Not as all other women are 

Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far. 
Beneath the silver evening-star. 

And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 

God giveth them to her alone, 

And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fair ; 

No simplest duty is forgot ; 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 
For nauglit that sets one heart at ease, 
And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 

And, though she seem of other birth. 
Round us her heart entwines and clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings 

To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is ; God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 

That aught were easier than to bless. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 

Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman — one in whom 

The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



277 



I love her with a love as still 

As a broad river's peaceful might, 

Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 

Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 

And, on its full, deep breast serene, 

Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green — 

Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Russell Lowell. 



Serenabe. 

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 

1 wake and passionate watches keep ; 
And yet, while I address thee now, 

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, 

That tender thought of love and thee, 
That while the world is hushed so deep, 

Thy soul 's perhaps awake to me ! 

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep ! 

With golden visions for thy dower, 
While I this midnight vigil keep, 

And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 
To me 'tis sweeter than the power 

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled. 
That I alone, at this still hour, 

In patient love outwatch the world. 

Thomas Hood. 



Serenabe. 

Look out upon the stars, my love, 

And shame them with thine eyes. 
On which, than on the lights above. 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light : 
Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 

A sister to the night ! 

Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast ; 
Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 



jSTay, lady, from thy slumbers break. 

And make this darkness gay. 
With looks whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 

Edward Coate Pinknet. 



@:i)e ittiller's iDaugljter. 

It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles at her ear : 

For, hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist. 

And her heart would beat against me 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all d^y long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom 

W^ith her laughter or her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

Alfred Tenxtson, 



^):\t Crook-sibe. 

1 WANDERED by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow. 

The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

Xo chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word, 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



1 

! 278 


P0E3IS ( 


OF LOVE. 




He came not, — no, he came not — 


Her every tone is music's ot\ti. 




The night came on alone, 


Like those of morning birds. 




The little stars sat one by one, 


And something more than melody 




Each on his golden throne ; 


Dwells ever in her words ; 




The evening wind passed by my cheek, 


The coinage of her heart are they, 




The leaves above were stirred, 


And from her lips each flows 




But the beating of my own heart 


As one may see the burdened bee 




Was all the sound I heard. 


Forth issue from the rose. 




Fast silent tears were flowing. 


Affections are as thoughts to her, 




When something stood behind ; 


The measures of her hours ; 




A hand was on my shoulder, 


Her feelings have the fragrancy, 




I knew its touch was kind : 


The freshness of young flowers ; 




It drew me nearer — nearer, 


And lovely passions, changing oft, 




We did not speak one word, 


So fill her, she appears 




For the beating of our own hearts 


The image of themselves bv turns, 

* 




Was all the sound we heard. 


The idol of past years ! 




Richard 3Ioxckton Milnes. 


Of her bright face one glance will trace 






A picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 




ealltib. 


A sound must long remain ; 




It was not in the winter 


But memory, such as mine of her, 




Our loving lot was cast ; 


So very much endears. 




It was the time of roses. 


When death is nigh, my latest sigh 




We plucked them as we passed ! 


Will not be life's, but hers. 




That churlish season never frowned 


I fill this cup to one made up 




On early lovers yet ! 


Of loveliness alone. 




Oh no, the world was newly crowned 


A woman, of her gentle sex 




With flowers when first we met. 


The seeming paragon. 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 




'Twas twilight, and I bade you go. 


Some more of such a frame. 




But still you held me fast ; 


That life might be all poetry. 




Jt was the time of roses. 


And w^eariness a name. 




We plucked them as we passed ! 






Edward Coate Pinkney. 




Thomas Hood. 






rk ijcaltli. 


1 

Coiic Song. 




I FILL this cup to one made up 


Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty 




Of loveliness alone, 


slumbers. 




A woman, of lier gentle sex 


Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her 




The seeming paragon ; 


hair! 




To whom the better elements 


Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy num- 




And kindly stars have given 


bers ■ 


1 


A form so fair, that, like the air. 


Breathed to mv sad lute amid the lonelyW 


1 


'Tis less of eiirth tiian heaven. 


1 



i 



SYLVIA. 



279 



Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 
To wind round the willow banks that lure him 
from above ; 

Oh that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 
I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! 

Ah, where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have 
wound her, 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo 
round her. 
To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! 

Come, then, my bird ! for the peace thou ever 
bearest. 

Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me — 
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my fairest, 

Bleeds with its death- wound — but deeper yet 

for thee ! 

George Dakley. 



Sgbia. 

I've taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er, 
A task that is not learned with tears : 
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
In her wild, solitary years ? 

Then what does he deserve, the youth 
Who 'made her con so dear a truth "? 

Till now in silent vales to roam. 

Singing vain songs to heedless flowers, 
Or watch the dashing billows foam. 
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers — 
To weave light crowns of various hue — 
Were all the joys thy bosom knew. 

The wild bird, though most musical. 

Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ; 
The streamlet, and the waterfall, 

Could only weep when thou didst sigh ! 
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word. 
Either with billow or with bird. 

For leaves and flowers, but these alone, 
Winds have a soft, discoursing way ; 
Heaven's starry talk is all its own. 
It dies in thunder far away. 
E'en when thou wouldst the moon beguile 
To speak, she only deigns to smile ! 



Now, birds and winds, be churlish still ! 

Ye waters, keep your sullen roar ! 
Stars, be as distant as ye will, — 
Sylvia need court ye now no more : 
In love there is society 
She never yet could find with ye ! 

Gi:oEGE Darlet. 



@^l)e ^tnakeninig of Qrnbgmion. 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing 

round him, 

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; 

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him. 

Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is 

undecayed. 

When will he awaken ? 

When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath been crying, 
Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; 
Winds^ woods, and waves found echoes for replying. 
But the tones of the beloved one were never 
heard again. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping ; 
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for 
him as dead ; 
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their 
keeping. 
And at night the solemn shadows round his rest 
are shed. 

When will he awaken ? 

Long has been the cry of faithful love's imploring ; 
Long has hope been watching with soft eyes fixed 
above ; 
When will the fates, the life of life restoring. 
Own themselves vanquished by much enduring 
love? 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring, 
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky, 

Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, 

Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh. 
When will he awaken ? 



.J 



280 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 
And the poet's passionate world has entered in 
his soul ; 
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glo- 
ries, 
When sages and when kings first upheld the 
mind's control. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour is 
fated ! 
It is Endymion's planet that rises on the 
air; 
How long, how tenderly his goddess-love has 
waited, 
Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of sing- 
ing, 
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing 
flowers depart ; 
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but 
is bringing 
Music that is murmured from nature's inmost 
heart. 

Soon he will awaken 
To his and midnight's queen ! 

Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the hour is 
holy ; 
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; 
Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
slowly 
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that 
yet dreaming boy. 

Soon he will awaken ! 

Red as the red rose towards the morning turn- 
ing 
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his 
own ; 
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and 
burning 
With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, 
was known. 

Yes, he has awakened 
For the midnight's happy queen ! 



What is this old history, but a lesson given, ; 

How true love still conquers by the deep | 
strength of truth — 
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, 
Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and 
youth ? I 

'Tis for such they waken ! ; 

When every worldly thought is utterly forsa- 
ken, 
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted 
few; 
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awa- 
ken 
To a being more intense, more spiritual, and 
true. 

So doth the soul awaken. 
Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 

Letitia Elizabeth Landon. 



Song. 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 

That burden treasured in your hearts too long ; '< 

Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never ' 

name her ; 

She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing I 

High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal j 

song — ! 

Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim : 

her! , 

I 

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, ■ 

She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; 
The forest winds alone approa<.'h to woo her. 
Far off we catch tlie dark gleam of her tresses ; 
And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she I 
strays, 
Intelligible music warbling to her. 

That spirit chargerj to follow and defend her, ! 

He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain ; j 

And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing. 
And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; i 

Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest ! 
strain 
From the heaved heart is gradually dying ! 

Aubrey de Verb. ] 



i 



RIDING DOWN. 



281 



HiMttjg moron. 

Oh, did you see him riding down, 
And riding down, while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see, 
And all the bells rang mad with glee ? 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out. 
The bells ring out, the people shout. 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear ? 

And did you see the waving flags. 

The fluttering flags, the tattered rags, 

Red, white, and blue, shot through and through, 

Baptized with battle's deadly dew f 

And did you hear the drums' gay beat, 
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash, 
That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 

And did you see me waiting there, 
Just waiting there, and watching there, 
One little lass, amid the mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass ? 

And did you see him smiling down. 
And smiling down, as riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face, — 

My face uplifted red and white, 
Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashing in their swift surprise ? 

Oh, did you see how swift it came, 
How swift it came like sudden flame, 
That smile to me, to only me, 
The little lass v/ho blushed to see"? 

And at the windows all along. 
Oh all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fair, beyond compare. 
Beamed out upon him riding there ! 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame. 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 



He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face, 
He turned to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see. 

NoKA Peret. 



Absence. 

What shall I do with all the days and "hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face f 

How shall 1 charm the interval that lowers 
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, 
Weary with longing f Shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of casting from me Grod's great gift of time ? 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within. 
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime *? 

Oh, how, or by what means, may 1 contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
near"? 

How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time and thou art here ? 

I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, 
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes 
pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 

More good than I have won since yet I live. 

So may this doomed time build up in me 
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; 

So may my love and longing hallowed be, 
And thy dear thought an influence divine. 

Frances Anne Kemble. 



282 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Song. 

Day, in melting purple dying ; 
Blossoms, all around me sighing ; 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; 

Ye but waken my distress, 

I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; 

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, 

Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 

All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 

Let the shining ore lie darkling ; 

Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; 

Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
I would only look on thee ! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Rapture in participation ! 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee. 

Once in caution I coidd fly thee ; 

Now, I nothing could deny thee. 
In a look if death there be, 
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 

Maria Brooks. 



®l]c (5roomGman to liis f^listrcss. 

Every wedding, says the proverb. 
Makes another, soon or late ; 

Never yet was any marriage 
Entered in the book of fate, 

But tlie names were alsf) written 
Of the patient pair that wait. 



Blessings then upon the morning 
When my friend, with fondest look, 

By the solemn rites' permission. 
To himself his mistress took, 

And the destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fulfilled his office, 
Still the ground the lovers eyed. 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aimed their glances at the bride ; 

But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were that stood beside her ; 

One was dark, and one was fair ; 
But nor fair nor dark the other, 

Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
Neither dark nor fair I call her. 

Yet she was the fairest there. 

While her groomsman — shall I own it? 

Yes to thee, and only thee — 
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 

Who was fairest of the three, 
Thus he thought : " IIow blest the bridal 

Where the bride were such as she ! " 

Then I mused upon the adage, 
Till my wisdom was perplexed, 

And I wondered, as the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy text, 

Wliich of all who heard his lesson 
Should require the service next. 

Whose will be the next occasion 
For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? 

Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ; 
Or, who knows! — it may be mine. 

What if 'twere — forgive the fancy — 
What if 'twere — both mine and thine! 
TuoMAs William Parsons. 



Song. 

ITow delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning. 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying ! 



THE CHRONICLE, 283 


Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 


A mighty tyrant she ! 


Love has bliss, but love has rueing ; 


Long, alas I should 1 have been 


Other smiles may make you fickle, 


Under that iron-sceptred queen. 


Tears for other charms may trickle. 


Had not Rebecca set me free. 


Love he comes and Love he tarries. 


When fair Rebecca set me free. 


Just as fate our fancy carries ; 


'Twas then a golden time with me : 


Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 


But soon those pleasures fled ; 


Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 


For the gracious princess died 




In her youth and beauty's pride. 


Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 


And Judith reigned in her stead. 


Bind its odor to the lily, 


c 


Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 


One month, three days, and half an hour 


Then bind love to last forever ! 


Judith held the sovereign power ; 


Thomas CAMPBELii. 


Wondrous beautiful her face ! 




But so weak and small her wit, 




That she to govern was unfit. 


^^ 1 J'^^ 1 • 1 


And so Susanna took her place. 


^v\z (t\)xo\\\dz. 


i 


Margarita first possessed, 


But when Isabella came. 


If 1 remember well, mv breast. 


Armed with a resistless flame, 


Margarita first of all ; 


And the artillery of her eye, 


But when awhile the wanton maid 


Whilst she proudly marched about. 


With my restless heart had played. 


Greater conquests to find out. 


»/ J. •/ 7 

Martha took the flying ball. 


She beat out Susan by the bye. 


Martha soon did it resign 


But in her place I then obeyed 


To the beauteous Catharine. 


Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid. 


Beauteous Catharine gave place 


To whom ensued a vacancy : 


(Though loth and angry she to part 


Thousand worse passions then possessed 


With the possession of my heart) 


The interregnum of my breast ; 


To Eliza's conquering face. 


Bless me from such an anarchy ! 


Eliza to this hour might reign, 


Gentle Henrietta then. 


Had she not evil counsels ta'en : 


And a third Mary next began ; 


Fundamental laws she broke, 


Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria ; 


And still new favorites she chose. 


And then a pretty Thomasine, 


Till up in arms my passion rose. 


And then another Catharine, 


And cast away her yoke. 


And then a long d ccetera. 


Mary then, and gentle Anne, 


But should I now to you relate 


Both to reign at once began ; 


The strength and riches of their state ; 


Alternately they swayed ; 


The powder, patches, and the pins. 


And sometimes Mary was the fair, 


The ribbons, jewels, and the rings. 


And sometimes Anne the crown did wear. 


The lace, the paint, and warlike things. 


And sometimes both I obeyed. 


That make up all their magazines ; 


Another Mary then arose, 


If I should tell the politic arts 


And did rigorous laws impose ; 


To take and keep men's hearts ; 



284 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



The letter, embassies, and spies. 
The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, 
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries 

(Numberless, nameless mysteries !) 

And all the little lime-twigs laid 
By Machiavel the waiting-maid — 

I more voluminous should grow 
(Chiefly if I like them should tell 
All change of weathers that befell) 

Than Ilolinshed or Stow. 

But I will briefer with them be. 
Since few of them were long with me. 

An higher and a nobler strain 
My present emperess docs claim — 
Heleonora, first of the name ; 

Whom God grant long to reign ! 

Abraham Cowley. 



If you become a nun, dear, 

A friar 1 will be ; 
In any cell you run, dear. 

Pray look behind for me. 
The roses all turn pale, too ; 
The doves all take the veil, too ; 

The blind will see the show ; 
What ! you become a nun, my dear, 

I'll not believe it, no ! 

If you become a nun, dear. 

The bishop Love will be ; 
The Cupids every one, dear, 

Will chant, '' We trust in thee ! " 
The incense will go sighing. 
The candles fall a dying, 

The water turn to wine : 
What ! you go take the vows, my dear? 

You may — but they'll be mine. 

Leigh Hunt. 



Xocturnc. 

Up to her chamV)er window 
A slight wire trellis goes, 

And up this Romeo's ladder 
Clambers a bold white rose. 



I lounge in the ilex shadows, 

I see the lady lean. 
Unclasping her silken girdle, 

The curtain's folds between. 

She smiles on her white-rose lover, 

She reaches out her hand 
And helps him in at the window — 

I see it where I stand ! 

To her scarlet lip she holds him. 
And kisses him many a time — 

Ah, me ! it was he that won her 
Because he dared to climb ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



Crabbed age and youth 

Cannot live together : 
Youth is full of pleasance, 

Age is full of care ; 
Youth like summer morn. 

Age like winter weather; 
Youth like summer brave, 

Age like winter bare. 
Youth is full of sport, 
Age's breath is short ; 

Youth is niihble, age is lame ; 
Youth is hot and bold, 
Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
Age, I do abhor thee. 
Youth, I do adore thee ; 

0, my love, my love is young I 
Age, I do defy thee ; 
0, sweet shepherd ! hie thee, 

For methinks thou stay'st too long. 

William Shakespeare. 



®l)c inaii)cn's (Cl)oicc. 

Gkn'teel in personage. 
Conduct and ocjuipage ; 
Noble by heritage ; 

Generous and free ; 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 285 


Brave, not romantic ; 


Think what with them they would do 


Learned, not pedantic ; 


That without them dare to woo ; 


Frolic, not frantic — 


And unless that mind I see, 


This must he be. 


What care I how great she be ? 


Honor maintaining, 


Great, or good, or kind, or fair. 


Meanness disdaining. 


I will ne'er the more despair ; 


Still entertaining. 


If she love me, this believe — 


Engaging and new ; 


I will die ere she shall grieve. 


Neat, but not finical ; 


If she slight me when I woo, 


Sage, but not cynical ; 


I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me. 


Never tyrannical, 




What care 1 for whom she be ? 


But ever true. 




Anonymous. 


George Wither. 


^l)e 0l)epl)erb's Resolution. 


Song. 


Shall I, wasting in despair, 


Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 


Die because a woman 's fair i 


Pr'y thee, why so pale ? 


Or make pale my cheeks with care, 


Will, when looking well can't move her, 


'Cause another's rosy are ? 


Looking ill prevail ? 


Be she fairer than the day, 


Pr'y thee, why so pale % 


Or the flowery meads in May — 




If she be not so to me, 


Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 


What care I how lair she be ? 


Pr'y thee, why so mute ? 




Will, when speaking well can't win her, 


Shall my foolish heart be pined 


Saying nothing do't? 


'Cause I see a woman kind ? 


Pr'y thee, why so mute ? 


Or a well-disposed nature 




Joined with a lovely feature ? 


Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 


Be she meeker, kinder, than 


This cannot take her ; 


The turtle dove or pelican — 


If of herself she will not love. 


If she be not so to me, 


Nothing can make her : 


What care I how kind she be ? 


The devil take her ! 




Sir John Suckling. 


Shall a woman's virtues move 




Me to perish for her love ? 




Or, her well deservings known, 


i-lS not fflet. 


Make me quite forget mine own ? 


Be she with that goodness blest. 


Fly not yet — 'tis just the hour 


Which may merit name of best, 


When pleasure, like the midnight flower 


If she be not such to me. 


That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 


What care I how good she be ? 


Begins to bloom for sons of night, 




And maids who love the moon ! 


'Cause her fortune seems too high. 


'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 


Shall I play the fool and die ? 


That beauty and the moon were made ; 


Those that bear a noble mind 


'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 


Where they want of riches find. 


Set the tides and goblets flowing ! 



286 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Oh ! stay, — oh 1 stay. — 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh I 'tis pain 

To break its links so soon. 

Fly not yet ! the fount that played, 

In times of old. through Aramon's shade. 

Though icy cold by day it ran. 

Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began 

To bum when night was near ; 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter-brooks, 
Xor kindle till the night, returning. 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh I stay, — oh I stay, — 
When did morning ever break 
And find such beaming eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here I 

TH03iAS MOOUE. 



Dcccitfnlncss of Couc. 

Go. sit by the summer sea, 

Thou whom scorn wasteth, 
And let thy musing be 

Where the flood hasteth. 
Mark how o'er ocean's breast 
Rolls the hoar billow's crest ; 
Such is his heart's unrest, 

Who of love tasteth. 

Griev'st thou that hearts should change ? 

Lo 1 where life reigneth, 
Or the free sight doth range, 

What long remaineth ? 
Spring with her flowers doth die ; 
Fast fades the gilded sky ; 
And the full moon on high 

Ceaselessly wancth. 

Smile, then, ye sage and wise : 

And if love sever 
Bonds which thy soul doth prize, 

Such does it ever ! 

Deep as the rolling seas. 

Soft as the twilight breeze. 

But of more than these 

Boast could it never ! 

Akokymous. 



e:iic Clicat af Cnpib; 

OR, THE UNGENTLE GUEST. 

One silent night of late. 
When every creature rested, 

Came one unto my gate, 
And, knocking, me molested. 

Who 's there, said I, beats there. 
And troubles thus the sleepy ? 

Cast off, said he, all fear, 

And let not locks thus keep thee. 

For 1 a boy am, who 

By moonless nights have swerved ; 
And all with showers wet through, 

And e'en with cold half starved. 

I, pitiful, arose. 

And soon a taper lighted ; 
And did myself disclose 

Unto the lad benighted. 

1 saw he had a bow. 

And wings, too, which did shiver ; 
And, looking down below, 

I spied he had a quiver. 

I to my chimney's shrine 

Brought him. as Love professes, 

And chafed his hands with mine. 
And dried his dripping tresses. 

But when that he felt warmed : 

Let *s try this bow of ours. 
And string, if they be harmed. 

Said he. with these late showers. 

Forthwith his bow he bent, 
And wedded string and arrow, 

And struck me. that it went 
Quite through my heart and marrow. 

Then, laughing loud, he flew 

Away, and thus said, flying : 
Adieu, mine host, adieu ! 
I'll leave thy heart a-dying. 

Anacreox. (Greek 
Translation of Robert Herrick. 



THE AXXOYER. 



287 



(Z^l)c toanbcrcr. 



LoTE comes back to Ms vacant dwelling — 
The old. old Love that we knew of yore I 
TTe see him stand by the open door, 

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. 

He makes as though in our arras repelling 
He fain would lie, as he lay before ; 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling — 
The old, old Love which we knew of yore ! 

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling 
That sweet forgotten, forbidden Love I 
E'en as we doubt, in our heart once move, 
With a iTish of tears to our eyelids welling, 
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling I 

Austin Dobsox, 



M 3 Desire toiti) pleasant Songs. 

If I desire with pleasant songs 

To throw a merry hour away, 
Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 

In careful tale he doth display, 
And asks me how I stand for singing, 
While I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time, if I 

A noon in shady bower would pass. 

Comes he with stealthy gestures sly. 
And flinging down upon the grass, 

Quoth he to me : My master dear, 

Think of this noontide such a vear I 

And if elsewhile I lay my head 

On pillow, with intent to sleep, 
Lies Love beside me on the bed, 

And gives me ancient words to keep : 
Says he : These looks, these tokens number ; 
May be, they'll help you to a slumber. 

So every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still : 

And hunts up every sign concealed, 
And every outward sign of ill ; 

And gives me his sad face's pleasures 

For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. 

Thomas BrRBiDGE, 



Z\\t ^nnoner. 

Love knoweth every form of air, 

And every shape of earth. 
And comes unbidden everywhere, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words. 
And vou hear his voice unceasinorlv, 

Like sons in the time of birds. 



He peeps into the warrior's heart 

From the tip of a stooping piume, 
And the sen-ied spears, and the many men. 

May not deny him room. 
He'll come to his tent in the weary night. 

And be busy in his dream. 
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light, 

Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 

And rides on the echo back. 
And sighs in his ear like a stiiTing leaf, 

And flits in his woodland track. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 

The cloud and the open sky, — 
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 

Like the light of your very eye. 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 

And ponders the silver sea. 
For Love is under the surface hid, 

And a spell of thought has he. 
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet. 

And speaks in the ripple low. 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 

And the hook hangs bare below. 

He blurs the print of the scholar's book. 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, 
And profanes the cell of the holy man 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight. 

In earth, and sea, and sky, 
In every home of human thought 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 

Nathaxiel Paeker Wnxis. 



288 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



^ incmorable Dessert. 

We dined. A fish from the river beneath, 
A cutlet, a bird from the windy heath 

Where we had wandered, happy and mute ; 
It was a silent day with us — 
In the early time it is often thus : 

But my sweet love chatted when came the fruit. 

Flavor of sunburnt nectarine. 

And the light that danced through a wineglass thin. 

Filled with juice of the grape of Rhine ; 
She talked and laughed about this and that, 
Easy, exquisite, foolish chat, 

While her pretty, fluttering hand sought mine. 

And I thought : Come glory or come distress, 
In this wonderful weary wilderness. 

This hour is mine till the day of death ; 
The fruit, the wine, and my lady fair, 
With a flower of the heath in her dim brown hair, 

And a sigh of love in her fragrant breath. 

Anonyjious. 



OR, GOOD OMEXS. 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn ; 

He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; 

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 

" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye — 

" With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what 

I'm about ; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside 

out." 
" Och ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the 

like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." 
" Faith ! " says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the 

ground." 



" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 

Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you 



so 



»" 



" Och ! " says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to 1 

hear, j 

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 

Och ! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die, 

And bright morning will give dirty night the black 
lie! 

1 

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not. to be sure ? j 

Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. \ 

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me ; 

enough ; \ 

Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes ; 

and Jim Duff ; i 

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite \ 

a baste, , 

So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." , 

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round hei j 

neck. 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with 

light, ' \ 
And he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he 

was right ? \ 

" Now Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more — \ 

That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me be- | 

fore." 

" Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure, ' 

For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory i 

O'More. I\ 

Samuel Lover. i 



(Toming tlirouigl) tl)c Unc 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry ? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amaug the train there is a swain 

I dearly toe myseV; 
But ivhaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 



! 

i 



MOLLY CAREW. 



289 



Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 

Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e myseV; 

Butu'haur his hame, or what his name, 

J dinna care to tell. 

Anonymous. 



ilTolln QTareu). 

OcH hone ! and what will I do ? 
Sure my love is all crost, 
Like a bud in the frost : 
And there 's no use at all in my going to bed. 
For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my 
head: 
And 'tis all about you. 
My sweet Molly Carew — 
And indeed, 'tis a sin and a shame ! 
You 're complater than nature 
In every feature ; 
The snow can't compare 
With your forehead so fair ; 
And I rather would see just one blink of your 

eye 
Than the prettiest star that shines out of the 
sky; 
And by this and by that, 
For the matter o' that. 
You're more distant by far than that same ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Och hone ! but why should I spake 
Of your forehead and eyes, 
W^hen your nose it defies 
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 

rhyme ; 
Tho' there 's one Burke, he says, that would call it 
snublime. 
And then for your cheek, 
Troth 'twould take him a week 

21 



Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather ; 
Then your lips ! oh, machree ! 

In their beautiful glow 
They a pattern might be 
For the cherries to grow. 
'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 

know. 
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; 
But at this time o' day, 
'Pon my conscience I'll say. 
Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
I'm alone in this world without j'ou. 

Och hone ! by the man in the moon, 
You taze me all ways 
That a woman can plaze, 
For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat 

Magee, 
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me ; 
Tho' the piper I bate. 
For fear the old cheat 
Would n't play you your favorite tune. 
And when you 're at mass 
My devotion you crass, 
For 'tis thinking of you 
I am, Molly Carew, 
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep 
That I can't at your sweet pretty face get a peep. 
Oh, lave off that bonnet, 
Or else I'll lave on it 
The loss of my wandering sowl ! 

Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
Och hone ! like an owl, 

Day is night, dear, to me without you ! 

Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 
For there 's girls by the score 
That loves me — and more; 
And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd 

meet 
My wedding all marching in pride down the street ; 
Troth, you'd open your eyes. 
And you'd die with surprise 
To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! 
And faith, Katty Naile, 
And her cow, I go bail. 
Would jump if I'd say, 
" Katty Naile, name the day ; " 



290 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in 
May, 

While she's short and dark like a cold winter's 
day, 
Yet if you don't repent 
Before Easter, when Lent 
Is over, I'll marry for spite, 
Och hone I weirasthru ! 
And when I die for you. 
My ghost will haunt you every night. 

Saml'el Lover. 



toibotD iltaclirce. 

Widow machree, it 's no wonder you frown — 

Och hone ! widow machree ; 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black 
gown — 
Och hone ! widow machree. 
How altered your air, 
With that close cap you wear — 
'Tis destroying your hair, 

Which should be flowing free : 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl — 
Och hone I widow machree ! 

Widow machree, now the summer is come — 

Och hone I widow machree — 
When every thing smiles, should a beauty look 
glum ? 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 
See the birds go in pairs, 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why, even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish, 
Though they can't spake, they wish — 
Och hone ! widow machree. 

Widow machree, and when winter comes in — 

Och hone ! widow machree — 
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 
Och hone I widow machree. 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
Ancl the kettle sings songs 



Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit you sup, 

Och hone I widow machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts I've 
towld — 
Och hone I widow machree — 
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the 
cowld, 
Och hone ! widow machree ! 
With such sins on your head. 
Sure your peace would be fled ; 
Could you sleep in your bed 

Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite, 
That would wake you each night. 

Crying, " Och hone I widow machree ! " 

Then take my advice, darling widow machree — 

Och hone I widow machree — 
And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me, 
Och hone I widow machree ! 
You'd have me to desire 
Then to stir up the fire ; 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart 
When you'd me near your heart — 
Och hone I widow machree ! 

Samuel Lover. 



Z\)c Courtin . 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen. 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in, — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 



THE COURTIN\ 



291 



The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

All' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's arm thet Grran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 

Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gels, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 

All crinkly like curled maple. 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Ole Hundred ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some / 
She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 

For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 
Down to her very shoe-sole. 



She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew. 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

*But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" Y"ou want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " 
" Wal ... no ... I come dasignin' "- 

" To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'," 

To say why gals acts so or so. 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t'other. 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin ; " 
Says she, " Think likely, Mister : " 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snow-hid in Jenooary. 

I 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin'. 
Tell mother see how metters stood. 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 



292 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fiindy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

James Russell Lowell. 



^ Mcc Corrcsponbcnt. 

The g'low and the glory are plighted 
To darkness, for evening is come ; 

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 

I'm alone, for the others have flitted 
To dine with a neighbor at Kew : 

Alone, but I'm not to be pitied — 
I'm thinking of you. 

I wish you were here. Were I duller 
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 

I am drest in your favorite color — 
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 

I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 
The necklace you fastened askew ! 

Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
A darling as you ? 

I want you to come and pass sentence 
On two or three books with a plot ; 

Of course you know " Janet's Repentance ? " 
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 

That story of Edgar and Lucy, 
How thrilling, romantic, and true! 

The Master (his bride was a goosey ! ) 
Reminds me of you. 

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning 
A poet whose garland endures ; 

It was you that first told me of Browning — 
That stupid old Browning of yours. 

His vogue and his verve are alarming, 
I'm anxious to give him his due ; 

But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
A poet as you. 

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 
I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 

I have read the report of your speeches. 
And echoed the echoing cheer. 



There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, 

Dear Fred, I believe it, I do ! 
Small marvel that Folly is making 
Her idol of you. 

Alas for the world, and its dearly 
Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ! 

Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
A plain or a penniless miss ; 

But, perhaps one is blest with " a measure 
Of })elf," and I'm not sorry, too, 

That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, 
My dearest, to you. 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 

Your taste is for letters and art ; 
This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
That glows in a fond woman's heart. 
Lay it by in some sacred deposit 
For relics — we all have a few ! 
Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
Was written to you. 

Frederick Locker. 



Stanzas. 

On, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory, 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 
plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 
wrinkled? 

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- 
sprinkled. 

Then away with all such from the head that is ; 
hoary ! I 

What care I for the wreaths that can only give I 
glory % \ 

Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding 

phrases 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dis- | 

cover I 

She thought that I was not unworthy to love I 

her. ; 



TEE MAID'S LAMENT. 293 


There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found 


But autumn's wind uncloses 


thee; 


The heart of all your flowers ; 


Her glance was the best of the rays that surround 


I think, as with the roses. 


thee; 


So hath it been with ours. 


When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my 




story, 


Like some divided river 


I knew it was love and I felt it was glory. 


Your ways and mine will be, 


LoKD Byron. 


To drift apart for ever, 




For ever till the sea. 


' 


And yet for one word spoken, 


@:i)e iUaib's Cament. 


One whisper of regret, 


The dream had not been broken, 


I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 


And love were with us yet. 


I feel I am alone. 


Rennell Eodd. 


I checked him while he spoke, yet could he speak, 




Alas ! I would not check. 




For reasons not to love him once I sought, 


Ifttnn kisseb ille. 


And wearied all my thought 




To vex myself and him ; I now would give 


Jexxi'' kissed me when we met, 


My love, could he but live 


Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 


Who lately lived for me, and, when he found 


Time, you thief 1 who love to get 


'Twas vain, in holy ground 


Sweets into your list, put that in. 


He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 


Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 


I waste for him my breath 


Say that health and wealth have missed me : 


Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns. 


Say I'm growing old, but add — Jenny kissed me ! 


And this lone bosom burns 


Leigh Hunt. 


With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 




And waking me to weep 




Tears that had melted his soft heart ; for years 


6ong. 


Wept he as bitter tears ! 


^ 


'' Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer, 


I BADE thee stay. Too well I know 


" These may she never share ! " 


The fault was mine, mine only : 


Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 


I dared not think upon the past. 


Than daisies in the mould, 


All desolate and lonely. 


Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, 




His name and life's brief date. 


I feared in memory's silent air 


Pray for him. gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, 


Too sadly to regret thee. 


And oh ! pray, too, for me ! 


Feared in the night of my despair 




I could not all forget thee. 


WAI.TER Savage T.andor. 






Yet go, ah. go ! Those pleading eyes. 




Those low, sweet tones, appealing 




From heart to heart : ah, dare I trust 


^ ^on% of ^xnumn. 


That passionate revealing ? 


All through the golden weather 


For ah, those keen and pleading eyes 


Until the autumn fell. 


Evoke too keen a sorrow. 


Our lives went by together 


A pang that will not pass away 


So wildly and so well. 


With thy wild vows to-morrow. 



294 P0E3IS OF LOVE. 


A love immortal and divine 


And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell? 


Within my heart is waking ; 


She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well — { 


Its dream of anguish and despair 


Lose who may — I still can say. 


It owns not but in breaking. 


Those who win heaven, blest are they. 


Sarah Helen Whitman. 


Egbert Browning. 




Ballab. 


iHisconccptions. 






Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse 


This is a spray the bird clung to, 


And beauty's fairest queen. 


Making it blossom with pleasure. 


Though 'tis not for my peasant lips 


Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 


To soil her name between. 


Fit for her nest and her treasure. 


A king might lay his sceptre down. 


Oh, what a hope beyond measure 


But I am poor and naught ; 


Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung 


The brow should wear a golden crown 


to,- 


That wears her in its thought. 


So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 






The diamonds glancing in her hair, 


This is a heart the queen leant on, 


Whose sudden beams surprise, 


Thrilled in a minute erratic. 


Might bid such humble hopes beware 


Ere the true bosom she bent on, 


The glancing of her eyes ; 


Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 


Yet, looking once, I looked too long ; 


Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 


And if my love is sin, 


Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went 


Death follows on the heels of wrong. 


on — 


And kills the crime within. 


Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! 




Robert Browning. 


Her dress seemed wove of lily-leaves, 




It was so pure and fine — 




Oh lofty wears, and lowly weaves, 




But hodden gray is mine ; 


(Due toari of Cone. 


And homely hose must step apart, 




Where gartered princes stand ; 


All June I bound the rose in sheaves; 


But may he wear my love at heart 


Now, rose by rose, 1 strip the leaves, 


That wins her lily hand ! 


And strew them where Pauline may pass. 




She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 


Alas ! there's far from russet frieze 


Lot them lie. Suppose thoy die? 


To silks and satin gowns; 


The chance was they might take lier eye. 


But I doubt if God made like degrees 




In courtly hearts and clowns. 


How many a month I strove to suit 


My father wronged a maiden's mirth. 


These stub))orn fingers to the lute ! 


And lirought her cheeks to blame ; 


To-tlay I venture all I know. 


And all that's lordly of my birth 


She Mill not hear my music? So ! 


Is my reproach and shame ! 


Break the .string — fold music's wing. 


• 


Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! 


'Tis vain to weep, 'tis vain to sigh, 




'Tis vain this idle .speech — 


My whole life long I learned to love; 


For where her liap])y pearls do lie 


Thi.s hour my utmost art I prove 


My tears may never reach ; 



WEST POINT. 



295 



Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say, of what has been. 
His love was nobly born and died, 

Though all the rest was mean ! 

My speech is rude, but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell ; 
Yet had I words, I dare not speak : 

So, lady, fare thee well ! 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree, 
But I must weep that partial fate 

Made such a churl of me. 

Thomas Hood. 



toest Point. 



'TwAS Commencement eve, and the ball-room belle 

In her dazzling beauty was mine that night. 
As the music dreamily rose and fell, 

And the waltzers whirled in a blaze of light : 
I can see them now in the moonbeam's glance 

Across the street on a billowy floor, 
That rises and falls with the merry dance. 

To a music that floats in my heart once more. 

A long half -hour in the twilight leaves 

Of the shrubbery : she, with coquettish face, 
And dainty arms in their flowing sleeves, 

A dream of satins and love and lace. 
In the splendor there of her queenly smile. 

Through her two bright eyes I could see the glow 
Of cathedral windows, as up the aisle 

We marched to a music's ebb and flow. 

All in a dream of Commencement eve ! 

I remember I awkwardly buttoned a glove 
On the dainty arm in its flowing sleeve, 

With a broken sentence of hope and love. 
But the diamonds that flashed in her wavy hair, 

And the beauty that shone in her faultless face. 
Are all I recall as I struggled there, 

A poor brown fly in a web of lace. 

Yet a laughing, coquettish face I see. 
As the moonlight falls on the pavement gray, 

I can hear her laugh in the melody 
Of the waltz's music across the way. 



And I kept the glove so dainty and small, 
That I stole as she sipped her lemonade, 

Till I packed it away I think with all 

Of those traps I lost in our Northern raid. 

But I never can list to that waltz divine. 

With its golden measure of joy and pain. 
But it brings like the flavor of some old wine 

To my heart the warmth of the past again. 
A short flirtation — that's all, you know. 

Some faded flowers, a silken tress, 
The letters I burned up years ago. 

When I heard from her last in the Wilderness. 

I suppose, could she see I am maimed and old. 

She would soften the scorn that was changed 
to hate. 
When I chose the bars of the gray and gold, 

And followed the South to its bitter fate. 
But here 's to the lads of the Northern blue. 

And here 's to the boys of the Southern gray, 
And I would that the Northern star but knew 

How the Southern cross is borne to-day. 

L. C. Strong. 



Song. 

I WENT to her who loveth me no more, 
And prayed her bear with me, if so she might ; 

For I had found day after day too sore, 
And tears that would not cease night after night. 

And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore 

To let me be with her a little ; yea, 

To soothe myself a little with her sight. 

Who loved me once, ah ! many a night and day. 

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe 
She pitied somewhat : and 1 took a chain 

To bind myself to her, and her to me ; 
Yea, so that I might call her mine again. 

Lo ! she forbade me not ; but I and she 

Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair. 
Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain, 

And put gold fetters on her golden hair. 

Oh ! the vain joy it is to see her lie 
Beside me once again ; beyond release, 

Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, 
All mine, for me to do with as I please ! 



296 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



For, after all, I find no chain whereby 
To chain her heart to love me as before, 

Xor fetter for her lips, to make them cease 
From saying still she loveth me no more. 

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy, 



@^l)e Dream. 



Our life is twofold : sleep hath its own world — 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence : sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality ; 

And dreams in their development have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts ; 

They take a weight from off our waking toils ; 

They do divide our being ; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time. 

And look like heralds of eternity ; 

They pass like spirits of the past, they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they 

will ; 
They shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanished shadows. Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind ? — the mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings l)righter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision, which I dreamed 
Perchance in sleep; for in itself a thought, 
A sluml)ering thought, is capal)le of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two l)eings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 

(irccn and of mild declivity ; the last. 

As 'twere the cape, of a long ridge of such. 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

or woods and cornfields, and the altodes of nicii 

Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill 



Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in circular array — so fixed. 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man. 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath ; 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 

And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers ; but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth, 

And that was shining on him ; he had looked 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colored all his objects ; he had ceased 

To live within himself ; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and fiow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously, his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even a,s a brother, but no more; 'twjis much ; 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him. 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honored race. It was a name 

Which pleased hinu and yet pleased him not — and 

why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
Another. Even now she loved another ; 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
Kei)t jnice with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
There was an ancient mansion ; and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned. 
Within an anticpie oratory stood 
The boy of whom I sj)ake ; he was alone. 
And j)ale, and pacing to and fro. Anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced 



THE LBEAM. 



291 



Words which I could not gaess of; then he 

leaned 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook, as "twere 
With a convulsion : then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written : but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet. As he paused. 
The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then : and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved : she knew — 
How quickly comes such knowledge I that his 

heart 
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched ; but she saw not alL 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o"er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced ; and then it faded as it came. 
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 
Eetired ; but not as bidding her adieu. 
For they did part with mutual smiles. He passed 
From out the massy gate of that old hall : 
And, mounting on his steed, he went his way; 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 

• rv. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The boy was sprung to manhood. In the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had Ijeen ; on the s^. 
-And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many imag:e> 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of aU : and in the last he lay, 
Re^x)sing from the noontide sultriness. 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them : by his sleeping side 
S: 1 camels graziag. and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad iu a flowing garb did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumbered around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky — 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream ; 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better. In her home. 

A thousand leases from his, her native home. 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 

Daughters and sons of beauty. But behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of an inward strife. 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be? — She had all she 

loved; 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes or evil wish, 
Or ill-repressed affection, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be? — she had loved him 

not, 
Xor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 
Xor oould he be a part of that which preyed 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VL 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dre^un : 

The wanderer was returned — I saw him stand 

Before an altar, with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair : but was not that which made 

The starlight of his boyhood. As he stood. 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique oratory shook 

His lx)som in its solitude : and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced — and then it feded as it came : 

And he stood c-alm and quiet : and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not Jus own words ; 

And all thinars reeled around him : he could 

see 
Xot that which was. nor that which should have 

been. 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall. 
And the remembered chambers, and the place. 
The day. the hour, the sunshine, and the shade — 
All things pertaining to that plac-e and hour. 
And her who was his destiny — c-ame back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light: 
What business had thev there at such a time ? 



298 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 
The lady of his love — oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling ; and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things. 
And forms impalpable, and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
xVnd brings life near to utter nakedness. 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream : 

The wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation — compassed round 

With hatred and contention ; pain was mixed 

In all which was served up to him ; until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 

He fed on poisons ; and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment. He lived 

Through that which had been death to many 

men ; 
And made him friends of mountains. With the 

stars. 
And the quick spirit of the universe. 
He liold his dialogues, and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries; 
To him the book of night was opened wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss revealed 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of thos(> two crcatiiros should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in nuidness — both in misery. 

Lord Byrok. 



Diinbcb. 



An empty sky, a world of heather, ♦ 

Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom : 

We two among them wading together. 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet : 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth. 

And short dry grass under foot is brown, 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. 

II. 

Over the grass we stepped unto it, 

And God, He knoweth how blithe we were ! 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it ; • 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 

Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over. 

We laj>pcd the grass on that youngling spring, 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 

III. 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows; 

Circling above us the black rooks fly. 
Forward, ])ackward : lo. their dark shadows 

Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 



DIVIDED. 



299 



Flit on the beck — for her long grass parteth, 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And lo, the sun like a lover darteth 
His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather, 

Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 

On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 
We move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — I may not follow ; 

I cry, " Return " — but he cannot come : 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 

Our hands are hangino:, our hearts are numb. 

A breathing sigh — a sigh for answer ; 

A little talking of outward things : 
The careless beck is a merry dancer. 

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider — 
" Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell : " 

" I may not cross "' — and the voice beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

Xo backward path ; ah I no returning : 
Xo second crossing that ripple's flow : 

" Come to me now, for the west is burning : 
Come ere it darkens." — '• Ah, no I ah, no ! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep ; 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them : we walk and weep. 

V. 

A yellow moon in splendor drooping. 

A tired queen with her state oppressed, 
Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, 

Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness. 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



We two walk on in our grassy places. 
On either marge of the moonlit flood. 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces. 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf -hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, 
Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver. 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew. and shines the river ; 

Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
But two are walking "apart forever. 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 

VII. 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede ; 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing — 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air) — 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While. my heart I as white sails shiver, 
And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off side I 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it, 

As I walk desolate dav bv dav. 



300 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



VIII. 

And yet I know past all doubting, truly, — 
A knowledge greater than grief can dim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea, better — e'en better than 1 love him ; 

And as I walk by the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to 

me." 

Jean Ingelow. 



QVsk iXic no more. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 
sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape. 
But, oh too fond, when have 1 answered thee ? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I g\\Q ? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 

Yet, my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed. 
I strove against the stream and all in vain. 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



iDc partcb in Gilcncc. 

We parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On I lie banks of that lonely river ; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, 

We met, and we parted for ever! 
The night-bird sang, and the stars above 

Told numy a touching story. 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 



We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling; 
We vowed we would never — no, never forget, 

And those vows at the time were consoling ; 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires for ever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 

And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
Each star is to me a sealed book, 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted in silence — we parted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river : 
But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 

Shall hang o'er its waters for ever. 

Julia Cbawford. 



Il3l}cn toe ilu30 partcb. 

Whex we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear f 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well. 
Long, long, shall I rue thee 

Too deeply to tell. 



IX A 


YEAB. 301 


In secret Tre met — 


" Speak— I love thee best ! " 


In silence I grieve, 


He exclaimed — 


That thy heait could forget. 


'* Let thy love my own foretell." 


Thy spirit det-eive. 


I confessed : 


If I should meet thee 


" Clasp my heart on thine 


After long vears, 


Xow unblamed, 


How should I greet thee ? — 


Since upon thy soul as well 


In silence and tears. 


Hangeth mine I " 


LoE-D Btrox. 






Was it wrong to own. 




Being truth ? 


Sn a Scar. 


Why should all the giving prove 

His alone ? 




I had wealth and ease, 


Never any more 

^^ hHe I live. 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 


Beauty, youth — 
Since my lover gave me love, 
I gave these. 


Once his love grown chill. 
Mine may strive — 

Bitterly we re-embrace. 
Single still. 


That was all I meant. 

— To be just, 
And the passion I had raised 

To content. 


Was it something said, 


Since he chose to change 
Grold for dust, 


Something done, 
Vexed him f ^ras it touch of hand. 


If I gave him what he praised 
Was it strange ? 


Turn of head ? 


CJ 


Strange ! that very way 
Love begun, 

I as little understand 
Love's decay. 


Would he loved me vet. 

On and on, 
VV hile I found some wav undreamed 

— Paid my debt I 




Gave more life and more, 


When I sewed or drew. 


Till, all gone. 


I recall 


He should smile " She never seemed 


How he looked as if I sang 


Mine before. 


— Sweetly too. 




If I spoke a word, 


" V\ hat — she felt the while, 


First of aU 


Must I think ? 


Up Ms cheek the color sprang. 


Love "s so different with us men," 


Then he heard. 


He should smile. 




"Dying for my sake — 


Sitting by my side. 


White and pink I 


At my feet, 


Can't we touch these bubbles then 


So he breathed the air I breathed. 


But they break?" 


Satisfied ! 




I, too, at love's brim 


Dear, the pang is brief. 


Touched the sweet. 


Do thy part, 


I would die if death bequeathed 


Have thy pleasin-e. How perplext 


Sweet to him. 


Grows belief ! 



302 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Well, this cold clav clod 

Was man's heart. 

Crumble it — and what comes next f 

Is it God ? 

Robert Browkikg. 



iTlatiana in the Soittli. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house through all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines ; 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn ; 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Through rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear. 
Still lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine. 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and passed 

Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 

Before Uur Lady murmured she : 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load ! " 
And on the liquid mirror glowed 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and morn ? " 
And " Ah, " she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat. 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault ; 



But day increased fr -m heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again. 
And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan ; 

And murmuring, as at night and morn. 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Breaming, she knew it was a dream ; 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble ot the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank the sick olive sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whispered, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth ; 
For " Love, " they said. " must needs be true. 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seemed to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore. " 

" cruel heart." she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn. 
Is this the end ^ to be left alone. 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seemed to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

*' But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all. 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

*' The day to night." she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn, 
And day and night I am left alone. 
To live forgotten, and ]ove forlorn." 



FIRST AND LAST. 



303 



At eve a dry cicala sung;' 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And leaned upon the balcony. 
There, all in spaces rosy-bright, 
Large Hesper glittered on her tears, 
And deepening through the silent spheres, 
Heaven over heaven, rose the night, 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not mom ; 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn. " 

Alfbed Tennyson. 



" A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

Xo more of me you knew. 
My love ! 

K"o more of me you knew. 

" The morn is merry June, I trow — 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turned his charger as he spake. 

Upon the river shore ; 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

Said, " Adieu for evermore. 
My loA'e ! 

And adieu for evermore." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



irirst anb £ast. 

They sat together, hand in hand, 
The sunset flickered low ; 

The fickle sea crept up the strand, 
And caught the after-glow. 



He sang a song, a little song 

No other poet knew. 
And she looked up and thought him strong, 

Looked down and dreamed him true. 

The fickle sea crept up the strand, 

And laughed a wanton laugh ; 
Took up the song the poet planned, 

And sang the other half. 

Times change ; the two went diverse ways : 

The evening shades increase 
On him, grown old in fame and praise, 

And her in household peace. 

The echo of the false, sweet words 

He spoke so long ago 
Has passed as pass the summer birds 

Before the winter snow. 

But as to-night the angel's hand 

Loosens the silver cord, 
And calls her to that other land 

Of love's supreme reward, 

She hears but one sound, silent, long, 

A whisper soft and low, 
The echo of the false, sweet song 

He sang so long ago. 

Anonymous. 



Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 

early mom — 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon 

the bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur- 
lews call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over 
Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
sandy tracts. 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cata- 
racts. 



304 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I ! And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sud- 



went to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 
west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the 

mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 

braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a 

youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result 

of time ; 

"When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 

reposed ; 
"When I clung to all the present for the promise 

that it closed ; 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 

could see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be. 

In the sprmg a fuller crimson comes upon the 

robin's breast ; 
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the bur- 
nished dove ; 

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 
be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute ob- 
servance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me ; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets 

to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and 
a light, 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the north- 
ern night. 



den storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they 

should do me wrong ; " 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, 

" I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in 

his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the 

chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 
copses ring, 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with the ful- 
ness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 

stately ships, 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of 

the lips. 

Oh my cousin, shallow-hearted ! Oh my Amy, 

mine no more ! 
Oh the dreary, dreary moorland ! Oh the barren, 

barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 
have simg — 

Puppet to a fathers threat, and servile to a shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known 

me ; to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 

than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 
day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympa- 
thize with clav. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



305 



As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with 

a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 

spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than 

his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy — think not they 

are glazed with wine. 
Go to him ; it is thy duty — kiss him ; take his 

hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- 
wrought — 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with 
thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 

understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew 

thee with my hand. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last 

embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 

living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
nature's rule ! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened fore- 
head of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst 

thou less unworthy proved, 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than 

ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears 

but bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be 

at the root. 

22 



Never ! though my mortal summers to such length 

of years should come 
As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the 

mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 

her, kind? 

I remember one that perished; sweetly did she 

speak and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly; love is love for 

evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth 

the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 

heart be put to proof. 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is 

on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art star- 
ing at the wall. 

Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 
shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

drunken sleep. 
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered by 

the phantom years. 
And a song from out the distance m the ringing of 

thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to thy 

rest again. 



306 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 

voice will cry ; 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy 

trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival 

brings thee rest — 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

Oh, the child, too, clothes the father with a dearness 

not his due ; 
Half is thine, and half is his — it will be worthy of 

the two. 

Oh, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down 

a daughter's heart : 

"They were dangerous guides, the feelings — she 

herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suifered." Perish in thy 

self -contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore 

should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 

days like these? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors ; all the 

markets overflow. 
1 have but an angry fancy: what is that which 

I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's 

ground, 
Wlien the ranks are rolled in vapcu', and the winds 

are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 



Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier 

page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, thou wondrous 

mother-age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 

the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult 

of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 

years would yield — 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 

father's field. 

And at niglit along the dusky highway near and 

nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 

a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 

him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 

throngs of men — 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the 

things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be — 

Sav/ the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 

magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 
rained a ghastly dew 

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the cen- 
tral blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plunging through 
the thunder-storm ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



307 



Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the 

battle-flags were furled 
In the parliament of man, the federation of the 

world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fret- 
ful realm in awe, 

And the kindly; earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- 
versal law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion, sweeping through 

me, left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 

the jaundiced eye — 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 

out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 

from point to point ; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping 
nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing 

purpose runs. 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the 

process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat for ever 

like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers ; and I lin- 
ger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the world is more 
and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 

bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness 

of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call " me, sounding on 

the bugle horn — 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn ; 



I 



Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

mouldered string ? 
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved 

so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain ; 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

matched with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, 

for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining orient, where my life began 

to beat ! 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil- 
starred ; 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander 

far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 

day— 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag — 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, droops the 

trailer from the crag — 

Droops the hea^^-blossomed bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 

of sea. 

There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than 

in this march of mind — 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 



308 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



There the passions, cramped 119 longer, shall have 

scope and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and 

they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 

lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- 
bows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
books. 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my 

words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child, 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

lower pains I 

Mated with a squalid savage, what to me were sun 

or clime ? 
1, tlic heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I, that rather held it better men siiould perish one 

by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in A jalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, for- 

wai'd let us range ; 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing 

grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into 
the younger day: 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Ca- 
thay, 

Mother-age, (for mine I know not.) help me as 
when life begun — 

T?ift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
nings, weigh the sun — 



Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 

not set ; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my 

fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall ! 
Xow for me the woods may wither, now for me the 

roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 

fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 

Igo. 

Alfred Texxyson. 



©1) tl)at 'tmcrc possible. 

On that 'twere possible, 

After long grief and pain, 
To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again I 

When I was wont to meet her 

In the silent woody places 
Of the land that gave me birth. 

We stood tranced in long embi'aces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 

Than anvthing on earth. 

A shadow flits before me. 

Not thou, but like to thee; 
Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 
The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be ! 

It leads mo forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 
In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 
At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



ORPHEUS '. 


TO BEASTS, 309 


Half the night I waste in sighs, 


Through the hubbub of the market 


Half in dreams I sorrow after 


I steal, a wasted frame ; 


The delight of early skies ; 


It crosses here, it crosses there. 


In a wakeful doze I sorrow 


Through all that crowd confused and loud 


For the hand, the lips, the eyes — 


The shadow still the same ; 


For the meeting of the morrow, 


And on my heavy eyelids 


The delight of happy laughter, 


My anguish hangs like shame. 


The delight of low replies. 


.• 




Alas for her that met me. 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


That heard me softly call. 


And a dewy splendor falls 


Came glimmering through the laurels 


On the little flower that clings 


At the quiet evenfall, 


To the turrets and the walls ; 


In the garden by the turrets 


'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 


Of the old manorial hall ! 


And the light and shadow fleet : 




She is walking in the meadow, 


Would the happy spirit descend 


And the woodland echo rings. 


From the realms of light and song, 


In a moment we shall meet ; 


In the chamber or the street, 


She is singing in the meadow. 


As she looks among the blest, 


And the rivulet at her feet 


Should I fear to greet my friend 


Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 


Or to say " Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet. 


o 


To the regions of thy rest ? " 


Do I hear her sing as of old. 


But the broad light glares and beats, 


My bird with the shining head. 


And the shadow flits and fleets 


My own dove with the tender eye ? 


And will not let me be ; 


But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry — 


And I loathe the squares and streets. 


There is some one dying or dead ; 


And the faces that one meets. 


And a sullen thunder is rolled ; 


7 

Hearts with no love for me : 


For a tumult shakes the city, 


7 

Alwavs I long to creep 


And I wake — mv dream is fled ; 


* O 1 

Into some still cavern deep, 

mi J T T 


t 7 


In the shuddering dawn, behold, 


Without knowledge, without pity, 


There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 

Alfked Tennyson. 


By the curtains of my bed 


That abiding phantom cold ! 




Get thee hence, nor come again ! 
Mix not memory with doubt. 


Q!)rpl)cits ta Beasts. 


Pass, thou deathlike type of pain. 


Here, here, oh here, Eurydice — 


Pass and cease to move about ! 


Here was she slain — 


'Tis the blot upon the brain 


Her soul 'stilled through a vein ; 


That will show itself without. 


The gods knew less 




That time divinity, 


Then I rise ; the eave-drops fall, 


Than even, even these 


And the yellow vapors choke 


Of brutishness. 


The great city sounding wide ; 




The day comes — a dull red ball 


Oh could you view the melody 


Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 


Of every grace. 


On the misty river-tide. 


And music of her face, 



310 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



You'd drop a tear ; 
Seeing more harmony 
In her bright ere. 
Than now vou hear. 



Richard Lovelace. 



I^emembrancc. 

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above 
thee, 

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, ray only Love, to love thee. 

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 

Xow. when alone, do my thoughts no longer 
hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore. 
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 
cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, evermore ? 

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From those brown hills have melted into spring : 

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along ; 

Other desires and other hopes beset me, 

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong I 

No later light has lightened up my heaven. 
No second morn has ever shone for me : 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given. 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had per- 
ished. 
And even Despair was powerless to destroy ; 
Then did 1 learn how existence could Ije cher- 
ished, 
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after 
thine; 

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down U) that tomb alreadv more than mine. 



And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, 

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain 

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, 
How could I seek the empty world again ? 

Emllt Broxte. 



(Tlic doom hatli flcb tlit} Cljcck, i!Tarn. 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary, 
As spring's rath blossoms die ; 

And sadness hath o'ershadowed now 
Thy once bright eye ; 

But look I on me the prints of grief 
Stni deeper lie. 
Farewell ! 

Thy lips are pale and mute. Mary ; 

Thy step is sad and slow ; 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 

Thou erst did know ; 
I, too. am changed like thee, and weep 

For very woe. 

Farewell ! 

It seems as 'twere but yesterday 

We were the happiest twain, 
"SMien murmured sighs and joyous tears, 

Dropping like rain. 
Discoursed my love, and told how loved 

I was again. 

Farewell ! 

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase 

We gave our passion name : 
Scorning such tedious eloquence, 

Our hearts' fond flame 
And long-imprisoned feelings fast 

In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 
That merest worldlings know. 

When passion's draught to our doomed lips 
Turns utter woe. 

And our poor dream of happiness 
Vanishes so I 

Farewell ! 



JEAXIE 2I0RRIS0X. 311 


But in the ureck of all our hopes 


But had I wist, before I kissed, 


There 's yet some touch of bliss. 


That love had been sae ill to win. 


Since fate robs not om* wretchedness 


I'd locked my heart in a ease of gold, 


Of this last kiss : 


And pinned it with a silver pin. 


Despair, and love, and madness meet 




In this, in this. 


Oh. oh, if my young babe were born, 


Farewell ! 


And set upon the nurse's knee. 


■\;VrLLIA3i: MOTHERTVEIX. 


And I mysell were dead and gane, 




And the green grass growin' over me I 




Axo>-T3iors. 


tOab. tDalp, but Cone be Bonn^. 




Oh waly, waly up the bank. 




And waly, waly, down the brae, 


Jeanie iHorrison. 


And waly, waly yon bm-nside. 

Where I and my love wont to gae. 


I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
Through mony a weary way ; 


I leaned my back unto an aik, 
I thought it was a trusty tree ; 

But first it bowed, and syne it brak — 
Sae my true love did lightlv me I 


But never, never can forget 
The luve o' life's young day ! 

The fire that 's bla w n on Beltane e en 
May weel be black gin Yule ; 

But blacker fa' awaits the heart 


Oh waly, waly, but love be bonny, 


Where first fond luve grows cule. 


A little time while it is new ; 




But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld. 


dear, dear Jeanie Momson. 


And fades away like the morning dew. 


The thoehts o' bygane years 




Still fling their shadows ower my path, 


Oh wherefore should I busk my head ? 


And blind my een wi' tears : 


Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 


They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 


For my true love has me forsook, 


And sair and sick I pine, 


And says he'll never love me mair. 


As memory idly summons up 


Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ; 


The blithe blinks o" langsyne. 


The sheets shall ne'er be f yled by me ; 
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink. 
Since my true love has forsaken me. 


'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part : 
Sweet time — sad time I twa bairns at scule, 


Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
And shake the green leaves ofiE the tree ? 

gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I'm weary. 


Twa bairns, and but ae heart I 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 

Remembered evermair. 


'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 




Xor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 


I wonder, Jeanie. aften yet. 


'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry. 


When sitting on that bink. 


But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 


Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 




VS'hat our wee heads could think. 


TMien we came in by Glasgow town, 


When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 


We were a comely sight to see ; 


Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 


My love was clad in the black velvet, 


Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 


And I mysell in cramasie. 


My lesson was in thee. 



312 P0E3IS OF LOVE. 


Oh, mind je how we hung our heads, 


Oh. tell me gin their music fills 


How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 


Thine ear as it does mine ! 


Whene'er the scule-weans, laugh in', said 


Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 


We cleeked thegither hame ? 


Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 


And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 




(The scule then skail't at noon,) 


I've w^andered east, I've wandered west, 


When we ran off to speel the braes, 


I've borne a weary lot ; 


The broomy braes o' June ? 


But in my wanderings, far or near. 




Ye never were forgot. 


My head rins round and round about — 


The fount that first burst frae this heart 


My heart flows like a sea, 


Still travels on its way ; 


As ane by ane the thochts rush back 


And channels deeper, as it rins. 


0' scule-time and o' thee. 


The luve o' life's young day. 


Oh mornin' life ! oh mornin' luve ! 




Oh liehtsome days and lang. 


dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


When hinnied hopes around our hearts 


Since we were sindered young 


Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 


I've never seen your face nor heard 




The music o' your tongue ; 


Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 


But 1 could hug all wretchedness, 


The deavin' dinsome toun, 


And happy could 1 die. 


To wander by the green burnside, 


Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 


And hear its waters croon ? 


0' bygane days and me ! 


The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 


WtLLiAM Motherwell. 


The flowers burst round our feet, 




And in the gloamin o' the wood 




The tlirossil whusslit sweet ; 


XHij ijcib is like to Ucnb, toillic. 


The throssil whusslit in the wood, 


My held is like to rend, Willie, 


The burn sang to the trees — 


My heart is like to break ; 


And we, with nature's heart in tune, 


I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, 


Concerted harmonies; 


I'm dyin' for your sake ! 


And on the knowc abune the burn 


Oh, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 


For hours thegither sat 


Your hand on my briest-bane ; 


In the silentness o' joy, till baith 


Oh, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 


Wi' very gladness grat. 


When I am deid and gane ! 


Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 


It's vain to comfort me, Willie — 


Tears trinkled doun your cheek 


Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 


Like dew-lK'ads on a rose, yet nana 


But let me rest upon your briest 


Had ony jjower to speak ! 


To sab and greet my fill. 


That was a time, a blessed time, 


Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 


When hearts were fresh and young, 


Let me shed by your hair, 


When freely gushed all feelings forth. 


And look into the face, Willie, 


Unsyllablt'd — unsung I 


I never sail see mair ! 


I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 


I'm sittin" on your knee, Willie, 


Gin I hae been to thee 


For the last time in my life, 


As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 


A |>uir lu'art-bn)k<Mi thing, Willie, 


As ye liae been to me ? 


A luitiier, vet nac wife. 



THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET. 



313 



Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 

And press it mair and mair. 
Or it will burst the silken twine, 

Sae Strang is its despair. 

Oh, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met ! 
Oh, wae's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
Oh, wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae, 
And wae's me for the destinie 

That gart me luve thee sae ! 

Oh, dinna mind my words, Willie — 

I downa seek to blame ; 
But oh, it's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 

And hailin' ower your chin : 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, 
I canna live as I ha'e lived, 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my held, Willie — 

A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
Oh, haud me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! 

How fast my life-strings break ! 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid. 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 



But oh, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be ! 
And oh, think on the leal, leal heart, 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And oh, think on the cauld, cauld mools 

That file my yellow hair. 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 

William Motherwell. 



®^l)e lose anb tlje (gauntlet 

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl : 
" I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl ; 
Fly with me from this garden small. 
And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall ; 

" Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, 
Joys beyond thy fancy's measure ; 
Here with my sword and horse I stand, 
To bear thee away to my distant land. 

" Take, thou fairest ! this full-blown rose, 

A token of love that as ripely blows." 

With his glove of steel he plucked the token. 

But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken. 

The maiden exclaimed, " Thou seest, sir knight. 
Thy fingers of iron can only smite ; 
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, 
I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered." 

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell ; 
But she turned from the knight, and said, " Fare- 
well ! " 
" Not so," he cried, " will I lose my prize ; 
I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." 

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel. 

And he mounted and spurred with furious heel ; 

But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, 

Who snatched his bow from above the fire. 

Swift from the valley the warrior fled. 
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped ; 
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot 

horse 
Was the living man, and the woman's corse. 



314 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



That morning the rose was bright of hue ; 
That morning the maiden was fair to view ; 
But the evening sun its beauty shed 
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. 

John Sterling. 



iHanb i!lnllcr. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down. 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks I " said the judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 



And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud MuUer looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
Th«t 1 the judge's bride might be! 

'' He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" rd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still : 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

'• Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" Xo doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So. closing his heart, the judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love tune: 

And the voung girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 



HELIOTROPE. 



315 



He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead, 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay. " 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with a timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, " It might have been." 



Alas for maiden, alas for judge. 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And in the hereafter angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



igeliotrope. 

Amid the chapel's checkered gloom 

She laughed with Dora and with Flora, 
And chattered in the lecture-room — 
The saucy little sophomora. 

Yet while, as in her other schools, 

She was a privileged transgressor, 
She never broke the simple rules 
Of one particular professor. 

But when he spoke of varied lore 

Paroxytones and modes potential, 
She listened with a face that wore 
A look half fond, half reverential. 
To her, that earnest voice was sweet ; 

And, though her love had no confessor, 
Her girlish heart lay at the feet 
Of that particular professor. 

And he had learned, among his books 

That held the lore of ages olden, 
To watch those ever-changing looks, 
The wistful eyes, and tresses golden. 
That stirred his pulse with passion's pain 

And thrilled his soul with soft desire, 
Longing for youth to come again. 
Crowned with its coronet of fire. 

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways. 
Were more to him than all his knowledge. 

And she preferred his words of praise 
To all the honors of the college. 



316 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Yet '• What am foolish 1 to hira ? " 
She whispered to her one confessor. 

" She thinks me old, and gray, and grim," 
In silence pondered the professor. 

Yet once, when Christmas bells were rung 

Above ten thousand solemn churches, 
And swelling anthems grandly sung 

Pealed through the dim cathedral arches — 
Ere home returning, filled with hope, 

Softly she stole by gate and gable. 
And a sweet spray of heliotrope 
Left on his littered study-table. 

Nor came she more, from day to day. 

Like sunshine through the shadows rifting; 
Above hei' grave, far, far away, 

The ever-silent snows were drifting. 

And those who mourned her winsome face, 

Found in its stead a swift successor. 
And loved another in her place ; 
All, save the silent, old professor. 

But, in the tender twilight gray. 

Shut from the sight of carping critic, 
His lonely thoughts would often stray 
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic — 
Bidding the ghost of perished hope 

Mock with its past the sad possessor 
Of the dead spray of heliotrope 

That once she gave the old professor. 

Anonymous. 



^ulb Uobiii (5rar). 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at 

hame, 
And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
When my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his 

bride ; 
But, saving a croun, he had nacthing else beside. 
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to 

sua ; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me ! 



He hadna been awa a week but only twa. 

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was 

stown awa ; 
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the 

sea — 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna 

spin; 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna 

win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in 

his ee. 
Said, " Jenny, for their sakes, oh marry me ! " 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie 

back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a 

wrack ; 
The ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie 

dee ? 
Or, why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 

My father argued sair — my mother didna speak, 
But she lookit in mv face till rav heart was like to 

break ; 
Sae they gied hira my hand, though my heart was 

in the sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife, a week but only four, 

When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for 1 couldna think it 

he. 
Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 

thee ! " 

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we 

say; 
Wc took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away : 
T wish I were dead, but Fm no like to dee ; 
And why do I live to say, Wae's me? 

I gang like a ghaist. and I carena to spin ; 
I dnurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; 
But Fll do my l)ost a gudo wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



317 



I3ert[)a in tlje %(inz. 

Put the broidery-frame away, 

For my sewing is all done ! 
The last thread is used to-day, 

And I need not Join it on. 

Though the clock stands at the noon, 

I am weary ! 1 have sewn, 

Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed. 

And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 

Do not shrink nor be afraid. 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street ! 
By God's love 1 go to meet, 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that I may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth ! 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze 

That the lashes, hung with tears. 
Grow too hea%^ to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 

Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness — tell me, dear ? 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year ? 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said, with accents undefiled, 
" Child, be mother to this child! " 

Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
Stand up on the jasper sea, 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, 
Love that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that turned around ! 



Mother, mother, thou art kind, 
Thou art standing in the room, 

In a molten glory shrined. 
That rays off into the gloom ! 
But thy smile is bright and bleak, 
Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 
I sob in it, and grow weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
One hour longer from my soul, 

For I still am thinking of 

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! 
On my finger is a ring 
Which 1 still see glittering, 
When the night hides every thing. 

Little sister, thou art pale ! 

Ah, I have a wandering brain. 
But 1 lose that fever-bale. 

And my thoughts grow calm again. 

Lean down closer — closer still ! 

I have words thine ear to fill, 

And would kiss thee at my will. 

Dear, I heard thee in the spring, 
Thee and Robert, through the trees. 

When we all went gathering 
Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
Do not start so ! think instead 
How the sunshine overhead 
Seemed to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did openly 
Seem to heave and throb away, 

At the sight of the great sky ; 

And the silence, as it stood 

In the glory's golden flood, 

Audibly did bud, and bud ! 

Through the winding hedgerows green, 
How we wandered, I and you, 

With the bowery tops shut in, 
And the gates that showed the view ; 
How we talked there ! thrushes soft 
Sang our pauses out, or oft 
Bleatings took them, from the croft. 

Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 
Left me muter evermore ; 



318 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before ; 
And so, wrapt in musings fond, 
Issued (past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow-lands beyond. 

I sat down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane, 

And the far sound of your speech 
Did not promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you, full and free, 
With a smile stooped tenderly 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 
As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so — do not shake — 
Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame ; 

Could he help it, if my hand 

He had claimed with hasty claim ! 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and will, again ! 
Women cannot judge for men. 

Had he seen thee, when he swore 
He would love but me alone? 

Thou wert absent — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee, who art best, 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as the rest. 

Could we blame him with grave words, 
Thou and I, dear, if we miglit ? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
Flying straightway to the light : 
Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
Up the street ! Is none without ? 
How the poplar swings about ! 

And that hour — beneath the beech — 

WTien I listened in a dream, 
And ho said, in his deep speech, 

That lie owed me all esteem — 



Each word swam in on my brain 

With a dim, dilating pain. 

Till it burst with that last strain. 

I fell flooded with a dark. 
In the silence of a swoon. 

When I rose, still, cold and stark, 
There was night — 1 saw the moon : 
And the stars, each in its place, 
And the May-blooms on the grass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And 1 walked as if apart 

From myself when I could stand ; 

And I pitied my own heart. 
As if I held it in my hand — 
Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence, 
And a " Poor thing " negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 
When you met me at the door ; 

And I only heard the dew 
Dripping from me to the floor ; 
And the flowers I bade you see, 
Were too withered for the bee — 
As my life, henceforth, for me. 

Do not weep so — dear — heart -warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 
I speak wild — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good — 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Tlien I always was too grave. 
Like the saddest ballads sung. 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died, dear, all the same — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other, 

Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother. 
But for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold. 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 



THEX. 319 


I am pale as crocus grows 


That the earthly light may go 




Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 


Sweetly as it used to rise 




Whosoe'er -svould reach the rose, 


\V hen I watched the morning gray 




Treads the crocus underfoot : 


Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 




1, like May-bloom on thorn-tree ; 


He was sure to come that day. 




Thou, like merry summer bee ! 






Fit, that I be plucked for thee. 


So — no more vain words be said ! 






The hosannas nearer roll — 




Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns — 


Mother, smile now on thy dead — 




1 have lived my season out — 


I am death-strong in my soul ! 




And now die of my oun thorns, 


Mystic Dove alit on cross, 




Which I could not live without. 


Guide the poor bird of the snows 




Sweet, be merry I How the light 


Through the snow-wind above loss ! 




Comes and goes I If it be night, 
Keep the candles in my sight. 


Jesus, victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation. 




Are there footsteps at the door ? 


Cleanse my love in its seK-spending, 




Look out quickly. Tea, or nay ? 


And absorb the poor libation I 




Some one might be waiting for 


Wind my thread of life up higher, 




Some last word that 1 may say. 


Up through angels' hands of fire ! 




Xay ? So best I So angels would 


I aspire while I expire I 




Stand off clear from deathly road, 


Elizabeth Baekett BROw^-ncG. 


• 


Not to cross the sight of God. 






Colder grow my hands and feet — 


^[\tn. 




Wlien 1 wear the shroud I made, 




Let the folds lie straight and neat, 
And the rosemary be spread, 
That if any friend should come 


I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour, 

That old-time princes asked in vain, 
And pined for in their useless power, 




(To see thee, sweet I), all the room 
May be lifted ont of gloom. 


Or died of passion's eager pain. 




And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring, 

WTiich at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 


I give thee love as God gives Kght, 
Aside from merit, or from prayer, 

Rejoicing in its ow n delight, 
And fi-eer than the lavish air. 




Let me wear it out of sight, 


I give thee prayers, like jewels strung 




In the grave — where it will light 


On golden threads of hope and fear ; 




All the dark up. day and night. 


And tenderer thoughts than ever hung 




On that grave, drop not a tear ! 


In a sad angel's pitying tear. 




Else, though fathom-deep the place. 


As earth pours freelv to the sea 




Through the woollen shroud I wear 


Her thousand streams of wealth untold, 




I shall feel it on my face. 


So flows my silent life to thee. 




Rather smile there, blessed one, 


Glad that its verj' sands are gold. 




Thinking of me in the sun — 






Or forget me — smiling on I 


\\ hat care I for thy carelessness f 
I give from depths that overflow, 




Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! 


Regardless that their power to bless 




Kiss me close upon the eyes, 


Thv spirit cannot sound or know. 





320 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Far lingering on a distant dawn 

My triumph shines, more sweet than late ; 
When from these mortal mists withdrawn. 

Thy heart shall know me — I can wait. 

Rose Terrt Cooke. 



Z\\t i^orsakcn illcrman. 

Come, dear children, let us away ! 

Down and away below. 
Now my brothers call from the bay : 
Now the great winds shorewards blow; 
Now the salt tides seaward flow; 
Now the wild white horses play. 
Champ and chaff and toss in the spray. 

Children dear, let us away ; 
This wav, this wav. 

Call her once before you go. 

Call once yet, 
In a voice that she will know : 

'' Margaret I Margaret ! " 
Children's voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother's ear; 
Children's voices wild with pain. 

Surely, she will come again. 
Call her once, and come away ; 

This way, this way. 
" Mother dear, we cannot stay," 
The wild white horses foam and fret, 

Margaret I ^largaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away do^vn. 

Call no more. 
One last look at the white-walled town. 
And the little gray church on the windy shore. 

Then come down. 
She will not come, though you call all day. 

Come away, come away. 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 

In the caverns where we lay. 

Through the surf and through the swell. 
The far-f»ff sound of a silver hoW f 
Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, 
Where the winds are all asleep: 



Where the spent lights quiver and gleam ; 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream ; 
Where the sea-beasts ranged all around 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground ; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. 
Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; 
Where great whales come sailing by, 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 
Round the world forever and ayef 

When did music come this way ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away ? 

Once she sat with you and me. 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 
And the youngest sat on her knee. 

She combed its bright hair and she tended it well, 

When down swung the sound of the far-off bell ; 

She sighed, she looked up through the clear green 
sea; 

She said, " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 

And I lo.se my poor soul, merman, here with thee." 

1 said, " Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea- 
caves." 

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay ; 
Children dear, was it yesterday f 

Children dear, were we long alone? 
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 
Long prayers." I said, " in the world they say. 
Come." I said, and we rose through the surf in the 

bay. 
We went up the beach in the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled 

town, 
Through the narrow-paved streets, where all was 

.still. 
To the little gray church on the windy hill. 
From the church came a murmur of folk at their 

prayers. 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with 

rains. 
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded 

panes. 



EXCUSE. 321 


She sat by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
" Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here. 
Dear heart," I said, " we are here alone. 


Singing, ■• Here came a mortal. 
But faithless was she, 
And alone dwell forever 


The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 


The kings of the sea." 


But ah, she gave me never a look. 

For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. 


But children, at midnight. 


" Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the 
door." 
Come away, children, call no more. 


When soft the winds blow. 
When clear falls the moonlight, 
When spring-tides are low, 


Come away, come down, call no more. 


When sweet airs come seaward 




From heaths starred with broom. 


Down, down, down, 
Down to the depths of the sea ; 
She sits at her wheel in the humming town 


And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanched sands a gloom ; 
L"p the still, glistening beaches, 


Singing most joyfully. 


L"p the creeks we will hie ; 


Hark what she sings : " Oh joy, oh joy. 
For the humming street, and the child with its 
toy. 


Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze from the sand-hills, 


For the priest and the bell, and the holy well. 
For the wheel where 1 spun, 
And the blessed light of the sun." 


At the white sleeping town : 
At the church on the hill-side — 
And then come back, down. 


And so she sings her fill, 


Singing. "' There dwells a loved one, 


Singing most joyfully. 


But cruel is she ; 


Till the shuttle falls from her hand. 


She left lonely forever 


And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at the 


The kings of the sea." 

Matthew Akxold. 


sand ; 




And over the sand at the sea ; 




And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
And anon there breaks a sigh, 


Q:x"cn5c. 


And anon there drops a tear, 


I TOO have suffered. Yet 1 know 


From a sorrow-clouded eye, 


She is not cold, though she seems so ; 


And a heart sorrow-laden, 


She is not cold, she is not light ; 


A long, long sigh. 
For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden 


But our ignoble souls lack might. 


And the gleam of her golden hair. 


She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 


Come away. away, children. 


While we for hopeless passion die : 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 


Come, children, come down. 


Were but men nobler than they are. 


The hoarse wind blows colder ; 




Lights shine in the town. 

She will start from her slumber 


Eagerly once her gracious ken 
Was turned upon the sons of men ; 


^Tien gusts shake the door ; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
"Will hear the waves roar ; 


But light the serious visage grew — 

She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. 


We shall see, while above us 


Our petty souls, our strutting wits. 


The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 

23 


Our labored puny passion-fits — 
Ah. may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 



322 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Yet oh, that Fate would let her see 
One of some worthier race than we, 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How cleeply she who scorns can love. 



^I 



His eyes be like the starry lights ; 
His voice like sounds of summer nights; 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 
The magic of the universe ! 

And she to him will reach her hand, 
And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
And know her friend, and weep for glee. 
And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee ! 

Then will she weep — with smiles, till then 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 

Matthew Arnold. 



Snbiffcrcncc. 

I MUST not say that thou wert true, 
Yet let me say that thou wert fair ; 

And they that lovely face who view, 
They will not ask if truth be there. 

Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts 
Wounded by men, by fortune tried, 

Outwcaried with their lonely parts, 
Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 

The world to them was stem and drear ; 

Their lot was but to weep and moan. 
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere. 

For neither could subsist alone ! 

But souls whom some benignant breath 
Hiis charmed at birth from gloom and care, 

These ask no love, these plight no faith, 
For they are hajipy as they are. 

The world to them may homage make. 
And garlands for their forehead weave : 

And what the world can give, they take — 
But they bring more tiian they receive. 



They smile ui)on the world; their ears 

To one demand alone are coy. 
They will not give us love and tears; 

Tliey bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 

It was not love that heaved thy breast. 
Fair child I it was the bliss within. 

Adieu I and say that one. at least, 
Was just to what he did not win. 

Mattuew Arnold. 



It was a beauteous lady richly dressed ; 

Around her neck are chains of jewels rare ; 
A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast. 

And a young child is softly slumbering there. 
In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun, 

She bears him onward to the greenwood tree; 
Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless one, 

The place where an earl's son should cradled be ? 
Lullaby ! 

Though a proud earl be father to my child. 

Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall lie : 
Let the winds lull him with their murmurs wild. 

And toss the green boughs upward to the sky. 
Well knows that earl how long my spirit pined. 

I loved a forestei', glad, bold, and free ; 
And had I wedded as my heart inclined, 

My child were cradled 'neath the greenwood tree. 
Lullaby ! 

Slumber thou still, my innocent, mine own. 

While I call back the dreams of other days. 
In the deep forest I feel less alone 

Than when those palace splendors mock my 
gaze. 
Fear not I my arm shall bear thee safely back ; 

I need no squire, no page with bended knee, 
To bear my baby through the wildwood track. 

Where Allan Percy used to roam with me. 
Lullaby ! 

Here I can sit ; and while the fresh wind blows, 
Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair. 

Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose. 

I can dream dreams that comfort my despair ; 



CHANGES. 



323 



I can make yisions of a different home, 
Such as we hoped in other days might be ; 

There no proud earl's unwelcome footsteps come — 
There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee ! 
Lullaby ! 

Thou art mine own — I'll bear thee where 1 list, 
Far from the dull, proud tower and donjon 
keep; 
From my long hair the pearl chains I'll un- 
twist, 
And with a peasant's heart sit down and weep. 
Thy glittering broidered robe, my precious one, 

Changed for a simpler covering shall be ; 
And 1 will dream thee Allan Percy's son, 
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with me. 
Lullaby ! 

Cakoli>t: Xorton. 



Whom first we lore, you know, we seldom wed. 

Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 

And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ; 
Much given away which it were sweet to 
keep. 
Grod help us all ! who need, indeed. His care. 
And yet, 1 know, the Shepherd loves His 
sheep. 

My little boy begins to babble now 

r^pon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 

fle has his father's eager eyes, I know ; 

And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 

I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ; 

Who might have been . . . ah, what I dare not 
think ! 

We are all changed. God Judges for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 



But blame us women not, if some appear 

Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 

Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. 
Who knows the past ? and who can judge us 
right ? 

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall I 

My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 

These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall 

know all ! 

Egbert Bulwer Lyttox. 



Florence bane. 

1 LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain — 
My hopes, and thy derision, 

Florence Yane. 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But. fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas, the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain. 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 



J 



324 POEJIS OF LOVE. 


The lilies of the valley 


Come, with acorn-cup and thorn. 


By young graves weep ; 


Drain my heart's blood all away ; 


The daisies love to dally 


Life and all its good I scorn. 


V\'here maidens sleep. 


Dance by night, or feast by day. 


May their bloom, in beauty vying. 


My love is dead. 


Xever wane 


Gone to his death-bed, 


Where thine earthly part is lying, 


All under the willow-tree. 


Florence Vane I 




Phu-ip Pexdletox Cooke. 


Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 




Bear me to your lethal tide. 




1 die I I come I my true-love waits. 


minstrcTs Gonq. 


Thus the damsel spake, and died. 


^ 


Thomas Chattertox, 


Oh, sing unto my roundelay I 




Oh, drop the briny tear with me ! 




Dance no more at holiday ; 


, 


Like a running river be. 


u)l)cn tl]c (5rnss sliall Concr Xllc. 


J\Iy love IS (had. 




Gone to his death-bed. 


Whex the grass shall cover me 


All under the wiUow-tree. 


Head to foot where I am lying. 




When not any wind that blows, 


Black his hair as the winter night. 


Summer bloom or winter snows. 


White his neck as the summer snow, 


Shall awake me to your sighing : 


Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 


Close above me as you pass, 


Cold he lies in the grave below. 


Vou will say, " How kind she was ; " 




You will say, " How true she was," 


Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 


When the grass grows over me. 


Quick in dance as thought can be : 




Deft his tabor, cudgel stout : 


"\Mien the grass shall cover me, 


Oh, he lies by the willow-tree ! 


Holden close to earth's warm bosom, 


Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 


While I laugh, or weep, or sing, 


I C3 

T A. 'X 1 * 11111 1 


Nevermore for anvthmg. 


In the biiored dell below : 

Willi 1 1 11 111 * 


You will find in blade and blossom 


Hark I the death-owl loud doth smg 






Sweet small voices, odorous. 


To the nightmares as they go. 


Tender pleaders of my cause, 


See ! the white moon shines on high ; 


That shall speak me as I was, 


Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 


When the grass grows over me. 


Whiter than the morning sky. 




Whiter than the evening cloud. 


When the grass shall cover me ! 




Ah ! lx»loved, in my sorrow 


Here, upon my true-love's grave 


Very patient can I wait, 


Shall the barren flowers be laid, 


Knowing that, or soon or late, 


Nor one holy saint to save 


There will dawn a clearer morrow, 


All the coldness of a maid. 


When your heart will moan, '* Alas, 




Now I know how true she was ; 


With my hands I'll bind the briers 


Now I know how dear she was," 


Round his holy corse to gre: 


When the grass grows over me. 


Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; 




Here my bc^dy still shall be. 


Anoxtmous. 



ANNABEL LEE. 



325 



Annabel £ee. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived, whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came, 

And bore her away from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea. 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride. 

In her sepulchre there by the sea. 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe, 



Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead I 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass. 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir — = 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so 
wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I betold? 

We were fellow-mortals — naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say. 
In the lower earth — in the years long still — 

That body and soul so gay ? 
W^hy your hair was amber I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red, 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 



326 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
gold. 
So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

Robert Bro^\'ning. 



ijigljlanb ill urn. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
Tlicre Simmer first unfakl her robes 

And there she langest tarry I 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk ! 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

1 clasped her to my l>osom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie : 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And [dedging aft lo meet again, 

VVe tore ourselves asunder; 
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nij)t my flower sae early ! 
Xow green "s the sod. and cauld 's the clay. 

That wraps my llighlaml Mary! 



Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Egbert Burns. 



Sl)c is far from tl)e taxiii. 

She is far from the land where her young hero 
sleeps. 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native 
plains. 

Every note which he loved awaking ; 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 

He had lived for his love, for his country he 
died, 
They were all that to life had entwined 
him ; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams 
rest 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the 
west, 
From her own loved island of sorrow. 

Thomas Moore. 



Song. 

" LADY, thy lover is dead," they cried ; 

" He is dead, but hath slain the foe ; 
He hath left his name to be magnified 

in a soni,'' of wonder and woe." 



I 



AUX ITALIEXS. 



327 



"Alas I I am well repaid." said she, 
" With a pain that stings like joy; 

For 1 feared, from his tenderness to me, 
That he was but a feeble boy. 

" Xow I shall hold my head on high. 

The queen among my kind. 
If ve hear a sound, "tis only a sigh 



For a glory left behind. 



Geobge MacDoxau). 



(Ta ilTarn in ^caocn. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early mom. 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Maiy I dear, departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past — 
Thy image at our last embrace I 

Ah I little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green : 
The fragrant bu*ch and hawthorn hoar 

Twined amorous round the raptiu'ed scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the globing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care : 
Time but th' impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear, departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid f 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

Egbert Bruxs. 



^nx Stalicns. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there : 

And she looked like a queen in a book that 
night. 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote. 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 

The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow : 
And who was not thrilled in the strangest 
way. 
As we heard him sing, whUe the gas burned 
low. 
•• Xon ti scordar di me .?" 

The Emperor there, in his box of state. 
Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen 

The red flag wave from the citv srate. 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too. had a tear in her eye : 
You 'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
again. 

For one moment, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well I there in our front-row box we sat. 
Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat. 
And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad : 
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, 

With that regal, indolent air she had ; 
So confident of her charm I 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was, 

Who died the richest and roundest of men. 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven. 
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; 

I wish him well, for the jointure given 
To mv ladv of Carabas. 



828 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Meanwhile, I Avas thinking of my first love, 

As I had not been thinking of aught for years ; 
Till over rav eves there begfan to move 



Something that felt like tears. 



I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 
When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime. 
In the crimson evening weather ; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) ; 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain : 
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, 

And falling loose again ; 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ; 

(Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower I) 
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; 

And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing I 

For I thought of her grave below the hill. 
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over ; 

And 1 thought, '• Were she only living still, 
How I could forgive her and love her ! " 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. 
And of how, after all, old things are best. 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. 
It made me creep, and it made me cold ! 

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 
Where a mummy is half unrolled. 

And I turned, and looked: she was sitting there. 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslm dress, with that full, soft hair. 
And that jasmine in her breast ! 

I was here, and she was there ; 

And the glittering horseshoe curved between : 
From my V)ride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien, 



To my early love, with her eyes downcast, 
And over her primrose face the shade, 

(In short, from the future back to the past) 
There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the 
door, 

I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 
Or something which never will be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again, 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed I 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then I 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, 

My heart grew youthful again. 

The Marchioness tliere, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; 
And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass ; 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love. 

With her primrose face, for old things are best ; 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize,it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin. 
And love must cling where it can, I say : 

For beauty is easy enougli to win ; 
But one isn't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and 
men. 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and 
even. 
If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! 

And oh that music ! and oh the way 
Tliat voice rang out from the donjon tower, 
Noil ti ficordnr di me, 
yon a scordar di me ! 

Robert, Lord Lvtton. 



LAODAMIA. 



329 



^00 £ate. 

"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treii." 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, lender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh, to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of you : 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



%aohavxxa. 

" With sacrifice, before the rising morn. 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 

And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required ; 

Celestial pity I again implore ; 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her 
hands ; 
^Hiile, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
Her countenance brightens and her eye ex- 
pands ; 
Elcr bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 



Oh terror ! what hath she perceived ? — oh joy ! 

What doth she Ipok on? — whom doth she be- 
hold? 
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 

His vital presence ■? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he! 
And a god leads him — winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his 
wand 
That calms all fear : " Such grace hath crowned 
thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air ; 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to 
clasp ; 

Again that consummation she essayed ; 
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The phantom parts — but parts to reunite, 
And reassume his place before her sight. 

'• Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ! 

Speak ! and the floor thou tread'st on will re- 
joice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : spectre though I be, 

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 

And something also did my worth obtain ; 

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan 
strand 
Should die; but me the threat could not with- 
hold— 
A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 



330 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



" Supreme of heroes ! bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore : 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou 

art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 

And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 
Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave ; 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

" No spectre greets me, — no vain shadow this ; 

Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 

To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parcae 

threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is past ; 
Nor should the change be mourned, even if the 

joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; 
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

" Be taught, faithful consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 

Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 

When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah. wherefore ? Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
(liven back to dwell on earth in vernal l>loom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 

And ^Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

" The gods to us are merciful, and they 
Yet further may relent ; for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star. 



Is love, though oft to agony distrest, ' 

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
breast. 

"But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace!" he 
said ; 
She looked upon him and was calmed and 
cheered ; 
The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
Brought from a pensive, though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. 

An ampler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest 
day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — '* 111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned. 

Who from ignoljle games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain de- 
light. 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 
night ; 

" And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 

Chieftains and kings in council were detained, 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

" The wished - for wind was given ; I then re- 
volved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea : 
And. if no worthier led the way. resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 



THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. 



331 



The foremost prow in pressing to the strand — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. - 

" Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
And on the joys we shared in mortal life — 

The paths which we had trod — these fountains, 
flowers — 

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 

Yet of their number no one dares to die f ' 
In soul I swept th' indignity away. 

Old frailties then recurred ; but lofty thought, 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

" And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow ; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest reunion in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 

" Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven. 

That self might be annulled — her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
Round the dear shade she would have clung, — 

'tis vain : 
The hours are past, — too brief had they been 

years ; 
And him no mortal effort can detain. 
Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly 

day. 
He through the portal takes his silent way. 
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
She perished ; and, as for wilful crime. 

By the just gods, whom no weak pity moved. 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 

Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers 

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 



— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died ; 
And ever, when such stature they had gained 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their 
view, 
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight 
A constant interchange of growth and blight ! 

William Wordsworth. 



@^l)e i^aircst Selling in iHortal Qrncs. 

To make my lady's obsequies 

My love a minster wrought, 
And, in the chantry, service there 

Was sung by doleful thought ; 
The tapers were of burning sighs. 

That light and odor gave ; 
And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, 

Enlumined her grave ; 
And round about, in quaintest guise, 
Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 

Above her lieth spread a tomb 

Of gold and sapphires blue : 
The gold doth show her blessedness, 

The sapphires mark her true ; 
For blessedness and truth in her 

Were livelily portrayed. 
When gracious God with both His hands 

Her goodly substance made. 
He framed her in such wondrous wise, 
She was, to speak without disguise. 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

No more, no more ! my heart doth faint 

When I the life recall 
Of her, who lived so free from taint, 

So virtuous deemed by all — 
That in herself was so complete, 

I think that she was ta'en 



332 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



By God to deck His paradise, 

And with His saints to reign ; 
"VMiora, while on earth, each one did prize, 
The fairest thing in mortal eves. 

But naught our tears avail, or cries ; 

All soon or late in death shall sleep ; 

Nor living wight long time may keep 

The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

Charles, Duke of Orueans. (French.) 
Translation of Henry Fraxcis Cart. 



(Tlie Burial of £ouc. 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away. 
With calm, sad brows and raven hair ; 
And one was pale and both were fair. 

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblo^vn 
Bring forest blooms of name unknown : 
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, 
To strew the bier of Love, the child. 

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, 
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; 
And fold his hands in sign of rest. 
His waxen hands, across his breast. 

And make his grave where violets hide. 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, 
And blue-birds, in the misty spring. 
Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 

Place near him, as ye lay him low, 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 
The silken fillet that around 
His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 

But we shall mourn him long, and miss 

His ready smile, his ready kiss, 

The patter of his little feet. 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; 

And graver IfM^ks. serene and high, 
A light of heaven in that young eye : 
All these sliall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache, and tears will start. 



The bow, the band, shall fall to dust ; 
The shining arrows waste with rust ; 
And all of Love thiit earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 

Xot thus his nobler part shall dwell, 
A prisoner in this narrow cell : 
But he whom now we hide from men 
In the dark ground, shall live again — 

Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight, 
And in th' eternal glory stand. 
Highest and nearest God's right hand. 

WELLIA3C CULLEX BrYAXT. 



Sonnet. 

The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain. 

That fondly fear to lose your liberty ; 
When, losing one, two liljerties ye gain. 
And make him bound that bondage erst did 
fly. 
Sweet be the bands the which true love doth 
tye 
Without constraint, or dread of any ill : 
The gentle bird feels no captivity 

Within her cage ; but sings and feeds her fill ; 
There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
The league 'twixt them that loyal love hath 
l)ound : 
But simple truth, and mutual good-will. 
Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's 
wound : 
There faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower. 
And spotless pleasure builds her sacred bower, 

Edmcxd Spbxser. 



Cone not. 

Love not. love not ! ye hapless sons of clay I 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- 
ers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. 

Love not I 



W IXIFBEDA. 3:33 


Love not ! the thins ve i'l-ve mav change : 


How should I love the pretty creatures. 


The rosT lip mar cease to smile on tou. 


While 'round mv knees thev fondlv clung. 


The kindlv-ljeaTning eve grow cold and strange. 


To see them look their mother's features, 


The heart still warnilv beat, ret not be true. 


To hear them lisp their mother's tongue I 


Love not I 






And when with en\ \ . time, transported. 


Love not 1 the thing rou love mav die — 


Shall think to rob us of our jors. 


May perish from the gay and gladsome earth : 


You'll in your girls again be courted, 


The silent stars, the blue and smiling skv. 


And I'll go wooing in my boys. 


Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 


A>0Mi^0r5. 


Love not 1 




Love not ! oh warning vainlv said 


Gcng. 


In present hours as in years gone by ; 

T rt* 11 T.IT "IT 


/"I T "1 


Love flings a halo round the dear ones head. 


Ctath h.K re rose-buds as ve mar. 


Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 




Old Time is still a-flying : 


Love not I 




And this same flower that smdes to-dav 

• 


Cakoltsx Xobtox. 




To-morrow wiU be dvins:. 
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. 


tOinifrcba. 




The higher he's a-getting, 
The sooner will his race be nm. 


Away I let naught to love displeasing. 




And nearer he's to setting. 


Mv Winifreda, move rour care : 






Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. 


The age is best which is the first. 


Xor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 


When youth and blood are warmer : 




But being spent, the worse and worst 


NS hat though no grants of royal donoi^ 


Time still succeed the former. 


With pompous titles grace our blood ; 




VN eTl shine in more substantial honors. 


Then be not coy. but use your time, 


And to be noble weTl be good. 


And while ve mav. go marrv: 


cr 


For havinsr lost but once vour prime. 


Om- name, while virtue thus we tender. 


You may for ever tarry. 


W ill sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : 


EOBEET HZKBICK. 


And aU the great ones, ther shall wonder 




How they respect such little folk. 




What though from fortune's lavish bountv 


Z\\c ^cbrctD tocbbing. 


Xo mighty treasures we possess : 


BRIDAL SONG. 


WeTl find within our pittance pl«itT, 




And l3e content without excess. 


To the sound of timbrels sweet 




Moving slow our solemn feet, 


Still shall each kind return fn? season 


We have borne thee on the road 


Sufficient for our wishes give : 


To the virgin's blest abode : 


For we wQl Kve a life of reason. 


With thy yeUow torches gleaming. 


And that *s the only life to live. 


And thr scarlet mantle streaminsr, 




And the canopy above 


Through youth and age in love excelliug. 


Swajing as we slowly move. 


Well hand in hand together tread : 




Sweet-smQuig peace shall crown our dwell in?. 


Thou hast left the joyous feast. 


And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 


And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 



334 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door, 
That the favored youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din 
At the bridegroom's entering in, 
Entering in, a welcome guest, 
To the chamber of his rest. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Now the jocund song is thine. 

Bride of David's kingly line ! 

How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, 

And thy slirouded eye resembleth 

Violets, when the dews of eve 

A moist and tremulous glitter leave 

On the bashful, sealed lid ! 

Close within the bride-veil hid, 

Motionless thou sit'st and mute, 

Save that, at the soft salute 

Of each entering maiden friend, 

Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds — 'tis he ! 'tis he ! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him 1 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him I 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting ! 

Henry Hart Milman. 



(Opitlialamian. 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes 

Beene to the ayding others to adorne, 

Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful ryraes. 

That even the greatest did not greatly scorne 

To heare theyr names sung in your simple lays, 

But joyed in theyr praise ; 

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne. 

Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did 

rayse. 
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, 
And teach the wc>ods and waters to lament 
Your doleful dreriment ; 



Now lay those sorrowf ull complaints aside ; 

And, having all your heads with girlands crowned, 

Helpe me mine owne love's prayses to resound, 

Ne let the same of any be envide. 

So Orpheus did for his owne bride ; 

So I unto my selfe alone will sing ; 

The woods shal to me answer, and my echo ring. 

Early, before the world's light-giving lampe 

His golden beame upon the hils doth spred. 

Having disperst the night's uncheerf ul dampe, 

Doe ye awake ; and with fresh lustyhed 

Go to the bowre of my beloved love. 

My truest turtle dove ; 

Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake. 

And long since ready forth his maske to move, 

With his bright torch that flames with many a 

flake. 
And many a bachelor to waite on him, 
In theyr fresh garments trim. 
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight ; 
For loe ! the wished day is come at last, 
That shal, for all the paynes and sorrowes past. 
Pay to her usury of long delight ! 
And, whylest she doth her dight. 
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 

ring. 

Bring with you all the nymphs that you can heare, 

Both of the rivers and the forests greene, 

And of the sea that neighbours to her neare ; 

All with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. 

And let them also with them bring in hand 

Another gay girland. 

For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, 

Bound, true-love-wise, with a blue silk riband. 

And let thorn make great store of bridale posies ; 

And let them eke bring store of other flowers, 

To deck the bridale l>o^^'ers. 

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread. 

For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong. 

Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along. 

And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, 

For she will waken strayt; 

The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, 

The woods siial to you answer, and your echo 



EPITHALA3II0N. 



335 



Ye nymphs of Mulla, which with carefull heed 

The silver-scaly trouts do tend full well, 

And greedy pikes which used therein to feed, 

(Those trouts and pikes all others doe excel 1 ;) 

And ye, likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, 

Where none do fishes take — 

Bynd up Ihe locks the which hang scattered 

light, 
And in hi^i waters, which your mirror make. 
Behold your faces as the christall bright. 
That when you come whereas my love doth lie 
No blemish she may spie. 

And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the dore 
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre — 
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to de- 

voure, 
With your Steele darts doe chace from coming 

neare — 
Be also present here. 

To helpe to decke her, and to helpe to sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 



Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time : 
The rosy morne long since left Tithon's bed, 
All ready to her silver coache to clyme ; 
And Phoebus 'gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark ! how the cheerfuU birds do chaunt theyr 

laies, 
And Carroll of love's praise 1 
The merry larke his mattins sings aloft ; 
The thrush replyes ; the mavis descant playes ; 
The ouzell shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft : 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 
To this daye's merriment. 

Ah ! my deare love, why do ye sleepe thus long? 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' awayt the comming of your joyous make ; 
And hearken to the birds' love-learned song. 
The dewy leaves among ! 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo 

ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dreame ; 

And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were 

With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly 

bearae, 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth reare. 



Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
Helpe quickly her to dight ! 

But first come, ye fayre houres, which were begot 
In Jove's sweet paradise of day and night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot ; 
And all that ever in this world is fayre, 
Do make and still repayre ! 

And ye, three handmayds of the Cyprian queene. 
The which do still adorn her beauteous pride, 
Helpe to adorn my beautif ullest bride ; 
And, as ye her array, still throw between 
Some graces to be scene ; 
And, as ye used to Venus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come — 
Let all the virgins, therefore, well awayt ; 
And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groome, 
Prepare yourselves ; for he is comming strayt. 
Set all your things in seemely-good array, 
Fit for so joyfull day — 
The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. 
Fair sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray, 
And let thy lif uU heat not fervent be. 
For feare of burning her sunshyny face, 
Her beauty to disgrace. 
fayrest Phoebus ! father of the Muse I 
If ever I did honour thee aright. 
Or sing the thing that mote thy minde delight, 
Do not thy servant's simple boone refuse ; 
But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; 
Let all the rest be thine, 
Then 1 thy soverayne prayeses loud will sing. 
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr echo 
ring. 

Harke ! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud 

Their merry musick that resounds from far — 

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud 

That well agree withouten breach or jar. 

But most of all the damzels do delite 

When they their tymbrels smyte, -*? 

And thereunto do daunce and carrol sweet, 

That all the sences they do ravish quite ; 

The whiles the boyes run up and doune the 

street. 
Crying aloud with strong, confused noyce, 
As if it were one voyce : 



336 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen ! they do shout, 

That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill 

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; 

To which the people standing all about, 

As in approvance, do thereto applaud. 

And loud advaunce her laud ; 

And evermore they Hymen, Hymen ! sing, 

That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo ring. 

Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace, 

Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the east. 

Arysing forth to run her mighty race, 

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 

So well it her beseems that ye would weene 

Some angell she had beene. 

Her long, loose, yellow locks lyke golden wyre, 

Sprinkled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, 

Do lyke a golden mantle her attyre ; 

And, being crowned with a girland greene, 

Seem lyke some mayden queene. 

Her modest eyes abashed to behold 

So many gazers as on her do stare. 

Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; 

Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. 

But blush to hcare her prayses sung so loud, 

So farre from being proud. 

Nathlesse do ye still loud her prayses sing, 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 

So fayre a creature in your towne before? 

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 

Adornd with beauty's grace and vertue's store ? 

Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright ; 

Her forehead ivory white ; 

Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath 

rudded ; 
Her lips lyke cherries charming men to byte; 
Her brest lyke to a bowl of cream uncrudded ; 
Her paps lyke lyllies budded ; 
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre ; 
And all her body like a pallace fayre. 
Ascending up with many a stately stayre, 
To honour's seat and chastity's sweet bowre. 
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze 
Upon her so to gaze, 
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 
To which the woods did answer, and your echo 

ring! 



But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
Garnisht with heavenly gifts of high degree, 
Much more then would ye wonder at that 

sight, 
And stand astonisht, lyke to those which red 
Medusae's mazeful hed. 

There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, 
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, 
Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; 
There vertue raynes as queene in royal throne. 
And giveth lawes alone, 
The which the base affections do obey. 
And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; 
Xe thought of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once scene these her celestial treasures, 
And unrevealed pleasures, 
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing. 
That all the woods should answer, and your echo 



Open the temple gates unto my love ! 
Open them wide, that she may enter in ! 
And all the postes adornc as doth behove, 
And all the pillars deck with girlands trim. 
For to receyve this saynt with honour dew. 
That commeth in to you ! 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She commeth in before th' Almighty's view. 
Of her, ye virgins, learne obedience, — 
When so ye come into those holy places. 
To humble your proud faces. 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endlesse matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
The whiles, with hollow throates. 
The choristers the joyous antheme sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Behold I whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
How the red roses flnsh up in her cheekes. 
And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne, 
Like crimson dyde in grayne : 



EPITHALAMION. 



337 



That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remaine, 
Forget their service and about her fly, 
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre 
The more they on it stare. 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
Are governed with goodly modesty. 
That suffers not one look to glaunce awry 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. 
The pledge of all our band ! 
Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring ! 

Now all is done : bring home the bride again — 
Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine — 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
Never had man more joyfull day than this, 
Whom heaven would heape with bliss. 
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day ; 
This day for ever to me holy is. 
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay — 
Poure not by cups, but by the belly-full — 
Poure out to all that wuU I 
And sprinkle all the postes and walls with wine, 
That they may sweat and drunken be withall. 
Crowne ye god Bacchus with a coronall. 
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of vine ; 
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. 
For they can do it best ; 
The whiles the maydens do theyr carrol sing, 
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr echo 
ring. 

Ring ye the bells, ye yong men of the towne, 

And leave your wonted labours for this day : 

This day is holy — do ye write it downe, 

That ye for ever it remember may, — 

This day the sun is in his chiefest hight, 

With Barnaby the bright, 

From whence declining daily by degrees, 

He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, 

When once the Crab behind his back he sees 

But for this time it ill-ordained w^s 

To choose the longest day in all the yeare, 

And shortest night, when longest fitter weare ; 

Yet never day so long but late would passe, 

24 



Ring ye the bells, to make it weare away, 
And bonfires make all day : 
And daunce about them, and about them sing 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, 
And lende me leave to come unto my love ? 
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ! 
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! 
Hast thee, fayrest planet, to thy home, 
Within the westerne foame ; 
Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. 
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, 
And the bright evening-star with golden crest 
Appeare out of the east. 
Fayre child of beauty ! glorious lamp of love ! 
That all the host of heaven in rankes dost lead, 
And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread, 
How cherefully thou lookest from above, 
And seem'st to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, 
As joying in the sight 
Of these glad many, which for joy do sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast ; 
Enough it is that all the day was youres. 
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast ; 
Now bring the bryde into the brydall bowres. 
The night is come, now soon her disarray, 
And in her bed her lay ; 
Lay her in lyllies and in violets ; 
And silken curtains over her display, 
And odourd sheets, and arras coverlets. 
Behold how goodly my faire love does lye, 
In proud humility ! 

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took 
In Tempe, lying on the flowry grass, 
'Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was, 
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. 
Now it is night — ye damsels may be gone, 
And leave my love alone ; 
And leave likewise your former lay to sing : 
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo 
ring. 

Now welcome, night ! thou night so long expected, 
That long dale's labour doest at last defray, 



338 



P0E3IS OF LOVE. 



And all my cares which cruell love collected, 

Hast siimmd in one, and cancelled for aye ! 

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, 

That no man may us see ; 

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, 

From feare of perill and foule horror free. 

Let no false treason seeke us to entrap, 

Xor any dread disquiet once annoy 

The safety of our joy ; 

But let the night be calme, and quietsome, 

Without tempestuous storms or sad af ray : 

Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, 

When he begot the great Tirynthian groome ; 

Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lye, 

And begot Majesty. 

And let the raayds and yongmen cease to sing ; 

I^e let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo ring. 

Let no lamenting cryes, nor doleful teares, 

Be heard all night within, nor yet without ; 

Xe let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, 

Brcake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout. 

Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights, 

3Iake sadden, sad affrights : 

Xe let house-fyres, nor lightning's helples harmes, 

Xe let the pouke, nor other evill sprights, 

Xe let mischievous witches with their charmes, 

Xe let hob-goblins, names whose sense we see not, 

Fray us with things that be not : 

Let not the shriech-owle, nor thcstorke, be heard ; 

Xor the night raven, that still deadly yells; 

Xor damned ghosts, cald up with mighty spells ; 

Xor griesly vultures make us once affoard. 

Xo let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croking 

Make us to wish theyr choking. 

Let none of these theyr dreary accents sing ; 

Xe let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo 



But let stil silence tnie night-watches keepe. 
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne. 
And tymcly sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe. 
May pourc his limbs forth on your pleasant plaync; 
The wiiik'S an hundred little winged Loves, 
Like divers-fethored doves, 
Shall fly and flutter round about the bed. 
And in the secret darkc, that none reproves, 
Tlieir prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall 
"Spread 



To filch away sweet snatches of delight, 
Conceald through covert night. 
Ye sonnes of Venus play your sports at will ! 
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, 
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes 
Than what ye do, albeit good or ill. 
All night therefore attend your raeiTy play, 
For it will soone be day ; 
Xow none doth hinder you, that say or sing ; 
Xe will the woods now answer, nor your echo 
ring. 

Who is the same, which at my window peepes ? 

Or whose is that fayre face that shines so bright ? 

Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes ? 

But w^alks about high Heaven all the night ? 

fayrest goddcsse, do thou not envy 

My love with me to spy ; 

For thou likewise didst love, though now un- 

t bought, 
And for a fleece of wool which privily 
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, 
His pleasures with thee wrought. 
Therefore to us be favourable now ; 
And sith of women's labours thou hast charge, 
And generation goodly dost enlarge, 
Encline thy will t' effect our wishfull a'ow, 
And the chast womb informe with timely seed, 
That may our comfort breed : 
Till which we cease our hopcfuU hap to sing ; 
Xe let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring. 

And thou, great Juno ! which with awful might 
The lawos of wedlock still dost jiatronizc; 
And the religion of the faith first pliglit 
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize ; 
And eke for comfort often called art 
Of women in their smart — 
Paternally bind thou this lovely band, 
And all thy blessings unto us impart. 
And thou, glad genius ! in whose gentle hand 
Tlie brydjile bowre and geniall bed remaine, 
Without blemish or staine ; 
And the sweet jilcasures of theyr love's delight 
With secret ayde dost succour and supply, 
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny ; 
Send us the timely fruit of this same night : 
And thou, fayre llebel and thou, Hymen free! 
Grant that it may so be ; 



XOT OURS THE VOWS. 



339 



Till which we cease tout further praise to sing, 
Xe any wood shall answer, nor your echo ring. 

And ye. high heavens, the temple of the gods. 
In which a thousand torches flaming bright 
Do burne, that to us wretched earthly clods 
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light ; 
And all ye powers which in the same remayne, 
More than we men can f ayne — 
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, 
And happy influence upon us raine. 
That we may raise a large posterity, 
Which, from the earth which they may long pos- 
se sse 
With lasting happinesse, 
Cp to your haughty pallaces may mount ; 
And. for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, 
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, 
Of blessed saints for to increase the count. 
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, 
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing : 
The woods no more us answer, nor our echo 



Song ! made in lieu of many ornaments. 
With wTiicTi my love sliould duly have been deckt. 
Which cutting of through hasty accidents, 
Ye icould not stay your due time to expect^ 
But promist both to recompens; 
Be unto her a goodly ornament. 
And for short time an endltsse monument. 

Edmuxd Spexsbk. 



^pitljalamium. 

I SAW two clouds at morning. 

Tinged by the rising sun. 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest. 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting. 
And join their course with silent force. 

In peace each other greeting : 
Calm was their course through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 



Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat : 
Like summer's beam, and summers stream, 

Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 
A purer sky, where aU is peace. 

JoHx G. C. Braixaed. 



^Tot ^nrs the boros. 

XoT ours the vows of such as plight 
Then* troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow. 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer : 

And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, bom in hours of joy and mirth, 
With miith and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks l^eyond the clouds of time, 

And through death's shadowy portal : 

Made by adversity sublime, 

By faith and hope immortal. 

Berxaed Bartox. 



-HT^ i!0iic has (Talkcb. 

My love has talked with rocks and trees: 
fle finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crowned ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life. — 

I looked on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery. 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 



-I 



340 P0E3IS OF LOVE. 


These two, they dwelt with eye on eye ; 

Their hearts of old have beat in tune ; 

Their meetings made December June ; 
Their every parting was to die. 


I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay 
And woo the cooler wind. 


Their love has never passed away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless jDeople say. 


1 miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 


Her life is lone — he sits apart — 

He loves her yet — she will not weep, 
Though, rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 


I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind, approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 


He thrids the labyrinth of the mind ; 

He reads the secret of the star ; 

He seems so near and yet so far; 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 


But when at morn and eve the star 
Beholds mc on my knee, 

I feel, though thou art distant far, 
Thy prayers ascend for me. 


She keeps the gift of years before — 
A withered violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 


Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still, 

O'er broad Ilindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 


For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house ; 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 


That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 
Nor mild Malwah detain ; 

For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
By yonder western main. 


Her faith is fixed and cannot move; 

Slie darkly feels him great and wise ; 

She dwells on him with faithful eyes: 
'• 1 cannot understand — 1 love." 


Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 


Alfued Tennyson. 


Reginald Heber. 


If <ri]on tJDcrt bn mn Gibe, mn Cone. 


^ toisi). 


li thou wert by my side, my love, 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 


Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy l)rook, that turns a mill. 

With many a fall shall linger near. 


K thou, my \o\q, wert by my side, 

3Iy babies at my knee. 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 


The swallow oft beneatli my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 



THE FIRESIDE. 



341 



Around my iried porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And LncT, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church among the trees, 

Where first our marriage tows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

SAarUEL ROGEBS 



^hc fircsibc. 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, . 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 

In folly's maze advance : 
Though singulai'ity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs ; 
Xo noisy neighbor enters here, 
Xo intermeddling stranger near. 

To spoil our heaitfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel Kes, 

And they are fools who roam : 
The world has nothing to l^stow — 
From our own selves our bliss must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers. 
We, who improve Ms golden hours, 

By sweet experienc-e know 
That marriage, rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
If tutored right. they'U prove a spring 

^Tience pleasures ever rise : 
We'll form their minds with studious care 
To all that's manly, good, and fair, 

And train them for the skies. 



While they our wisest hours engage. 
They'll joy our youth, support oui" age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They'll grow in virtue every day, 
And thus our fondest loves repay, 

And recompense our cares. 

Xo borrowed joys, they're all our own, 
While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot : 
Monarchs. we envy not your state — 
We look with pity on the great. 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then how little do we need. 

For nature's calls are few ; 
In this the art of living lies. 
To want no more than may suffice, 

And make that little do. 

We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Xor aim beyond our power : 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Xor lose the present hour. 

To be resigned when iQs betide. 
Patient when favors are denied. 

And pleased with favors given — 
Dear Chloe. this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 

We'll ask no long-protracted treat. 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 

But. when our feast is o'er. 
Grateful from table we'll arise, 
Xor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. 

The rehcs of our store. 

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; 
Its chequered paths of joy and woe 

With cautious steps we'll tread : 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
Without a trouble, or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
Shall through the gloomy vale attend. 

And cheer our dying breath — 
Shall, when aU other comforts cease. 
Like a kind angel whisper peace. 

And smooth the bed of death, 

IJSATHAXIEL COTTON. 



iUu tDifc's a ttlinsomc iI3cc illiiug. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o" mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer. 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my Jewel line. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife of mine. 

The warkVs wrack, we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't, 
Wi' her 1*11 blj-thely bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 

Robert Bckks. 



iDatcliing. 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

The dusty day is done. 

Lo ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep 

Wide over groves of balm, 

Down from the towering palm. 

In at the open casement cooling run, 

And round thy lowly l)ed, 

Thy l>ed oi |>ain. 

Bathing thy patient head. 

Like grateful showers of rain, 

They come ; 

While the white curtains, waving to and fro, 

Fan the sick air : 

And pityingly the shadows come and go, 

With gentk- luunan care. 

Compassionate and dumb. 



The dusty day is done, 

The night begun : 

While prayerful watch I keep, 

Sleep, love, sleep I 

Is there no magic in the touch 

Of fingers thou dost love so much ? 

Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now ; 

Or. with its mute caress. 

The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press 

fpon thy weary lid and aching brow ; 

WhUe prayerful watch I keep, 

Sleep, love, sleep I 

On the pagoda spire 

The bells are swinging. 

Their little golden circlet in a flutter 

With tales the wooing winds have dared to 
utter 

Till all are ringing, 

As if a choir 

Of golden-nested birds in heaven were sing- 
ing; 

And with a lulling sound 

The music floats around. 

And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ; 

Commingling with the hum 

Of the Sepoy's distant drum. 

And lazy beetle ever droning near. 

Sounds these of deepest silence bom, 

Like night made visible by morn ; 

So silent that I sometimes start 

To hear the throbbings of my heart, 

And watch, with shivering sense of pain. 

To see thy pale lids lift again. 

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes. 

Peeps from the mortise in surprise 

At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; 

Then boldly ventures out. 

And looks about. 

And with his hollow feet 

Treads his small evening beat. 

Darting upon his prey 

In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, 

His delicate marauding seems no sin. 

And still the curtains swing. 

But noiselessly ; 

The Ix'lls a melancholy murmur ring. 

As tears wei-e in the skv : 



THE POETS BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



343 



More heavily the shadows fall, 
Like the black foldings of a pall 
Where juts the rough beam from the wall ; 
The candles flare 
With fresher gusts of air ; 
The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; 
Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. 

Emilt Chubbuck Judson. 



®l)e Poet's !3ribal-?Ua2 Song. 

Oh, my love 's like the steadfast sun, 
Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between sighs and tears. 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes. 
Can make my heart or fancy flee, 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew. 

When looks were fond and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet, 
And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
When words descend like dews, unsought, 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought. 
And fancy in her heaven flies free, 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old. 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower : 



'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee. 
The golden fruit of fortune's tree ; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine — 
A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grrave moments of sedater thought, 
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; 
Oh^ then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak, 
I think this wedded wife of mine. 
The best of all that's not divine. 

Allan Cunningham. 



@:i)e poefs Song to liis ttlife. 

How many summers, love, 

Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove. 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind, 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loth, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; — 

All else is flown ! 

Ah ! with what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low, 

Like a pleasant rhyme. 

They tell how much I owe 

To thee and time ! 

Bakrt Cornwall. 



344 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



2:i)c Blissful Dan. 

The day returns, my bosom barns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toiled, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes. 

Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give — 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 

Robert Burns. 



®l)c (Solbcn tocbbing. 

Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 

Life's longest path have trod ; 
Whose ministiT hath symlxilled sweet 

The dearer love of God ; 
The sacred myrtle wreathes again 

Thine altar, as of old ; 
And what was green with summer then. 

Is mellowed now to gold. 

Not now, as then, the future's face 

Is flushed with fancy's light; 
But memory, with a milder grace. 

Shall rule the feast to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone. 

Nor less the blinding shower ; 
The bud of fifty years agone 

Is love's perfected flower. 



memory, ope thy mystic door ; 

dream of youth, return ; 
And let the light that gleamed of yore 

Beside this altar burn. 
The past is plain ; 'twas love designed 

E'en sorrow's iron chain; 
And mercy's shining thread has twined 

With the dark warp of pain. 

So be it still. Thou who hast 

That younger bridal blest, 
Till the 3Iay-morn of love has passed 

To evening's golden west ; 
Come to this later Cana, Lord, 

And, at thy touch divine. 
The water of that earlier board 

To-night shall turn to wine. 

David Gray. 



Jolin ^nbcrson. 

John Axdersox, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo ! 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John. 

We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we nuiun totter doun. John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, ray jo. 

Robert Burns. 



PAET Y. 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
To latest times : and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust. 

William Cowter. 



Oh courage I there he comes 



What ray of honor round about him looms ! 

Oh, what new beams from his bright eyes do glance ! 

O princely port 1 presageful countenance 

Of hap at hand ! He doth not nicely prank 

In clinquant pomp, as some of meanest rank, 

But armed in steel : that bright habiliment 

Is his rich valor's sole rich ornament. 

Joshua Sylvester, 



En avant ! marchons 
Contre leurs canons ! 
A travers le fer, le fen des battaillons, 
Courons a la Aictoire ! 

CaSIMIR DE la VlGNE. 



The perfect heat of that celestial fire, 
That so inflames the pure heroic breast, 
And lifts the thought, that it can never rest 

Till it to heaven attain its prime desire. 

Lord Thurlcw. 



POEM S OF 


AMBITION. 


^oratius. 


From sea-girt Populonia, 




Whose sentinels descry 


A LAY MADE ABOUT THE TEAR OF ROME CCCLX. 


Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 


Lars Porsexa of Clusium, 


Fringing the southern sky ; 


By the nine gods he swore 


From the proud mart of Pisae, 


That the great house of Tarqiiin 


Queen of the western waves, 


Should suffer wrong no more. 


WTiere ride Massilia's triremes, 


By the nine gods he swore it, 


HeaAy with fair-haired slaves ; 


And named a trysting day, 


From where sweet Clanis wanders 


And bade his messengers ride forth, 


Through corn and ^ines and flowers, 


East and west and south and north, 


From where Cortona lifts to heaven 


To summon his array. 


Her diadem of towers. 


East and west and south and north 


Tall are the oaks whose acorns 


The messengers ride fast. 


Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 


And tower and town and cottage 


Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 


Hare heard the trumpet's blast. 


Of the Ciminian hill ; 


Shame on the false Etruscan 


Beyond all streams, Clitumnus 


Who lingers in his home, 


Is to the herdsman dear ; 


When Porsena of Clusium 


Best of all pools the fowler loves 


Is on the march for Rome ! 


The great Volsinian mere. 


The horsemen and the footmen 


But now no stroke of woodman 


Are pouring in amain 


Is heard by Auser's rill ; 


From many a stately market-place, 


No hunter tracks the stag's green path 


From many a fruitful plain. 


Up the Ciminian hill ; 


From many a lonely hamlet, 


Unwatched along Clitumnus 


Which, hid by beech and pine. 


Grazes the milk-white steer ; 


Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 


Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 


Of purple Apennine ; 


In the Yolsinian mere. 


From lordly Volaterrae, 


The harvests of Arretium, 


"WTiere scowls the far-famed hold 


This year, old men shall reap ; 


Piled by the hands of giants 


This year, young boys in Umbro 


For godlike kings of old ; 


Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 



348 POEMS OF 


AMBIT10^\ 


And in the vats of Luna, 


For aged folk on crutches. 


This year, the must shall foam 


And women great with child. 


Round the white feet of laughing girls 


And mothers, sobbing over babes 


Whose sires have marched to Rome. 


That clung to them and smiled. 




And sick men borne in litters 


There be thirty chosen prophets, 


High on the necks of slaves, 


The wisest of the land. 


And troops of sunburned husbandmen 


Who alway by Lars Porsena 


With reaping-hooks and staves, 


Both morn and evening stand. 




Evening and morn the thirty 


And droves of mules and asses 


Have turned the verses o'er, 


Laden with skins of wine. 


Traced from the right on linen white 


And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 


By mighty seers of yore ; 


And endless herds of kine. 
And endless trains of wagons, 




And with one voice the thirty 


That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 


Have their glad answer given : 


'* Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena — 


Choked every roaring gate. 


Go forth, beloved of heaven ! 




Go, and return in glory 


Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 


To Clusium's royal dome, 


Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 


And hang round Xurscia's altars 


The golden shields of Rome ! " 


Red in the midnight sky. 




The fathers of the city, 


And now hath every city 


They sat all night and day. 


Sent up her tale of men ; 


For every hour some horseman came 


The foot are fourscore thousand. 


With tidings of dismay. 


The horse are thousands ten. 




Before the gates of Sutrium 


To eastward and to westward 


Is met the great array ; 


Have spread the Tuscan bands, 


A proud man was Lars Porsena 


Xor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, 


L'pon the trysting day. 


In Crustumerium stands. 




Verbenna down to Ostia 


For all the Etruscan armies 


Hath wasted all the plain ; 


Were ranged beneath his eye, 


Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 


And many a banished Roman, 


And the stout guards are slain. 


And many a stout ally ; 




And with a mighty following, 


I wis, in all the senate 


To join the muster, came 


There was no heart so bold 


The Tusculan !Mamilius, 


But sore it ached, and fast it beat. 


Prince of the Latian name. 


When that ill news was told. 




Forthwith up rose the consul, 


But by the yellow Tiber 


Up rose the fathers all ; 


Was tumult and affright ; 


In haste they girded up their gowns, 


From all the spacious champaign 


And hied them to the wall. 


To Rome men took their flight. 




A mile around the city 


They held a council, standing 


The throng stopped up the ways ; 


Before the river-gate ; 


A fearful sight it was to see 


Shf>rt time was there, ye well may guess. 


Through two long nights and days. 


For musing or debate. 



HORATIUS, 



349 



Out spake the cansnl roundly : 

'• The bridg-e must straight go down ; 

For, since Janiculum is lost, 
Nought else can save the town."" 

Just then a scout came flying-, 

All wild with haste and fear : 
"To arms ! to arms! sir consul — 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still, and still more loud. 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud, 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Xow through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right, 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright. 

The long aiTay of spears. 

And plainly and more plainly, 

Above that glimmering line, 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
But the banner of proud Clusium 

Was highest of them all — 
The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know. 
By port and vest, by horse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo : 
There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
Girt with the brand none else may wield ; 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold. 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thrasymene. 

Fast by the royal standard, 
O'erlooking all the war, 



Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his iVory ear. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the housetops was no woman 

But spat towards him and hissed, 
No child but screamed out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 

But the consul's brow was sad. 

And the consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe : 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town ? " 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds 
For the ashes of his fathers. 

And the temples of his gods? 

" And for the tender mother 

Who dandled him to rest, 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame — 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrought the deed of shame ? 

" Hew down the bridge, sir consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
1, with two more to help me. 

Will hold the foe in play — 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand. 

And keep the bridge with me ? " 



r 

350 POEMS OF 


AMBITIOX. 


Then out spake Spurius Lartius — 


Four hundred trumpets sounded 


A Ramnian proud was he : 


A peal of warlike glee, 


" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 


As that great host, with measured tread. 


And keep the bridge with thee." 


And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 


And out spake strong Herminius — 


Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 


Of Titian blood was he : 


Where stood the dauntless three. 


" 1 will abide on thy left side, 
And keep the bridge with thee." 


The three stood calm and silent, 
And looked upon the foes. 


" Horatius," quoth the consul, 


And a great shout of laughter 


" As thou sayest, so lot it be." 


From all the vanguard rose ; 


And straight against that great array- 


And forth three chiefs came spurring 


Forth went the dauntless three. 


Before that deep array ; 


For Romans in Rome's quarrel 


To earth they sprang, their swords they drew. 


Spared neither land nor gold, 


And lifted high their shields, and flew 


Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 


To win the narrow way, 


In the brave days of old. 


Annus, from green Tifernum, 


Then none was for a party — 


Lord of the hill of vines ; 


Then all were for the state ; 


And Seius, whose eiglit hundred slaves 


Then the great man helped the poor, 


Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 


And the poor man loved the great ; 


And Picus, long to Clusium 


Then lands were fairly portioned ! 


Vassal in peace and war. 


Then spoils were fairly sold : 


Who led to flght his Umbrian powers 


The Romans were like brothers 


Prom that gray crag where, girt with towers. 


In the brave days of old. 


The fortress of Nequinum lowers 


Xow Roman is to Roman 


O'er the pale waves of Nar. 


More hateful than a foe, 


Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 


And the tribunes beard the high, 


Into the stream beneath ; 


And the fathers grind the low. 


Herminius struck at Seius, 


As we wax hot in faction. 


And clove him to the teeth; 


In battle we wax cold ; 


At Picus brave Horatius 


Wherefore men fight not as they fought 


Darted one fiery thrust. 


In the brave days of old. 


And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 


Now while the three were tightening 


Clashed in the bloody dust. 


Their harness on their backs. 


Then Ocnus of Falerii 


The consul was the foremost man 


Rushed on the Roman three ; 


To take in hand an axe : 


And Lausulus of LTgo, 


And fathers, mixed with commons. 


The rover of the sea : 


Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 


And Aruns of Volsinium, 


And smote upon the planks above, 


Who slew the great wild boar — 


And loosed the props below. 


The great wild boar that had his den 


Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold. 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 


Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 
Along Albinia's shore. 


Rank bchiufl rank, like surges bright 


Herminius smote down Aruns; 


Of a broad sea of gohl. 


Lartius laid Ocnus low; P 



HOEATIUS. 851 


Right to the heart of Lausulus 


Then, like a wild-eat mad with wounds, 


Horatius sent a blow : 


Sprang right at Astur's face. 


" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 


Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 


No more, aghast and pale. 


So fierce a thrust he sped, 


From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 


The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 


The track of thy destroying bark ; 


Behind the Tuscan's head. 


No more Campania's hinds shall fly 




To woods and caverns, when they spy 


And the great lord of Luna 


Thy thrice-accursed sail ! " 


Fell at that deadly stroke, 




As falls on Mount Avernus 


But now no sound of laughter 


A thunder-smitten oak. 


Was heard among the foes ; 


Far o'er the crashing forest 


A wild and wrathful clamor 


The giant arms lie spread ; 


From all the vanguard rose. 


And the pale augurs, muttering low, 


Six spears' lengths from the entrance 


Gaze on the blasted head. 


Halted that deep array, 




And for a space no man came forth 


On Astur's throat Horatius 


To win the narrow way. 


Right firmly pressed his heel, 




And thrice and four times tugged amain. 


But, hark ! the cry is Astur : 


Ere he wrenched out the steel. 


And lo ! the ranks divide ; 


" And see," he cried, " the welcome, 


And the great lord of Luna 


Fair guests, that waits you here 1 


Comes with his stately stride. 


What noble Lucumo comes next 


Upon his ample shoulders 


To taste our Roman cheer ? " 


Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 




And in his hand he shakes the brand 


But at his haughty challenge 


Which none but he can wield. 


A sullen murmur ran, 




Mingled with wrath, and shame, and dread. 


He smiled on those bold Romans, 


Along that glittering van. 


A smile serene and high ; 


There lacked not men of prowess, 


He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 


Nor men of lordly race ; 


And scorn was in his eye. 


For all Etruria's noblest 


Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 


Were round the fatal place. 


Stand savagely at bay ; 




But will ye dare to follow. 


But all Etruria's noblest 


If Astur clears the way?" 


Felt their hearts sink to see 


- 


On the earth the bloody corpses, 


Then, whirling up his broadsword 


In the path the dauntless three ; 


With both hands to the height. 


And from the ghastly entrance. 


He rushed against Horatius, 


Where those bold Romans stood. 


And smote with all his might. 


All shrank — like boys who, unaware. 


With shield and blade Horatius 


Ranging a wood to start a hare, 


Right deftly turned the blow. 


Come to the mouth of the dark lair 


The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh, 


Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 


It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh — 


Lies amidst bones and blood. 


The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 




To see the red blood flow. 


Was none who would be foremost 




To lead such dire attack ; 


He reeled, and on Herminius 


But those behind cried " Forward ! " 


He leaned one breathing-space — 


And those before cried " Back ! " 



853 



POEMS OF AJIBITJOX. 



And backward now, and forward, 

Wavers the deep array ; 
And on the tossing sea of steel 
To and fro the standards reel. 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd ; 
Well known was he to all the three, 

And they gave him greeting loud : 
" Xow welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Xow welcome to thy home ! 
Whv dost thou stav, and turn awav ? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread ; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied : 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
''Come back, come back, Horatius!" 

Loud cried the fathers all — 
" Back, Lartius I back, Ilerminius ! 

Back, ere the ruin fall I " 

Back darted Spurius Lartius — 

Herminius darted back ; 
And. as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more : 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell ever}' loosened Ix^am, 
And. like a dam. the miglity wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream ; 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 



And like a horse unbroken, 

When first he feels the rein. 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane, 
And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free ; 
And whirling, down in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind — 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
*' Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face ; 
" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 

" Now yield thee to our grace ! " 

Round turned he. as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That roUs by the towers of Rome : 

" Tiber 1 father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! " 
So he spake, and. speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side. 
And, with his harness on his back, 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank, 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

lliey saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forlx^ar to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current. 

Swollen high by months of rain ; 



THE DESTRUCTION 


OF SENNACHEBIB. 353 


And fast his blood was flowing ; 


And still his name sounds stirring 


And he was sore in pain, 


Unto the men of Rome, 


And heavy with his armor, 


As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 


And spent with changing blows ; 


To charge the Volscian home ; 


And oft they thought him sinking, 


And wives still pray to Juno 


But still again he rose. 


For boys with hearts as bold 




As his who kept the bridge so well 


Never, I ween, did swimmer. 


In the brave days of old. 


In such an evil case, 




Struggle through such a raging flood 


And in the nights of winter, 


Safe to the landing place ; 


When the cold north winds blow, 


But his limbs were borne up bravely 


And the long howling of the wolves 


By the brave heart within, 


Is heard amidst the snow ; 


And our good father Tiber 


When round the lonely cottage 


Bare bravely up his chin. 


Roars loud the tempest's din, 




And the good logs of Algidus 


" Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus, — 


c5 O O 

Roar louder yet within ; 


" Will not the villain drown ? 




But for this stay, ere close of day 


When the oldest cask is opened, 


We should have sacked the town ! " 


And the largest lamp is lit ; 


" Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 


When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 


" And bring him safe to shore ; 


And the kid turns on the spit ; 


For such a gallant feat of arras 


When young and old in cu'cle 


Was never seen before." 


Around the firebrands close ; 


And now he feels the bottom : 


When the girls are weaving baskets, 


Xow on dry earth he stands ; 


And the lads are shaping bows ; 


Now round him throng the fathers 


When the goodman mends his armor, 


To press his gory hands ; 


And trims his helmet's plume ; 


And now, with shouts and clapping, 


When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 


And noise of weeping loud. 


Goes flashing through the loom ; 


He enters through the river-gate, 


With weeping and with laughter 


Borne by the joyous crowd. 


Still is the story told, 


Thev gave him of the corn-land. 


How well Horatius kept the bridge 


That was of public right, 


In the brave days of old. 


As much as two strong oxen 


LoKD IMacaulat. 


Could plough from morn till night ; 




And they made a molten i mage, 




And set it up on high — 


®l)e Dcstntctian of Scnnacljcrib. 


And there it stands unto this day 




To witness if I lie. 


The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 




And his cohorts wei'e gleaming in purple and gold ; 


It stands in the comitium. 


And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 


Plain for all folk to see, — 


sea, 


Horatius in his harness, 


7 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 


Halting upon one knee ; 




And underneath is written. 


Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 


In letters all of gold, 


That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 


How valiantly he kept the bridge 


Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath flown. 


In the brave days of old. 


That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 



354 



P0E3IS OF AMBITION. 



For the angel of death spread his wings on the 

blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and 

chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever 

grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his 

mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 



^avmobius anb ^ristogciton. 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
The sword that laid the tyrant low, 
When patriots, burning to be free. 
To Athens gave equality. 

Harmodius, hail ! though 'reft of breath, 
Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death ; 
The heroes' happy isles shall be 
The bright abode allotted thee. 

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
The sword that laid Ilipparchus low, 
Wlien at Athena's adverse fane 
lie knelt, and never rose again. 

While freedom's name is understood, 
You shall delight the wise and good ; 
You dared to set your country free. 
And gave her laws equality. 
Translation of Lord Denmax. Callistratus. (Greek.) 



Jft is (5rcat for our Countrn to IDic. 

Oh ! it is great for our country to die, where ranks 
are contending : 
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits 
us for aye — 
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light 
never ending — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, oh ! never 
away. 

Oh ! it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
his love. 
Wet by a mother's warm tears ; they crown him 
with garlands of roses. 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 
country hath perished ; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
with her smile ; 
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
cherished ; 
Gods love the young who ascend pure from the 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious 
river ; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, roll- 
ing sea ; 
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted 
for ever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant, and free. 

Oh ! then, how great for our country to die, in the 
front rank to perish, 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout 
in our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our 
memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased 
the sweet music to hear. 

James Gates Percivau 



BOADICEA. ■ 355 


£eonibas. 


I30abicea. 


Shout for the mighty men 


Whex the British warrior queen, 


Who died along this shore, 


Bleeding from the Roman rods. 


Who died within tliis mountain's glen ! 


Sought, with an indignant mien, 


For never nobler chieftain's head 


Counsel of her country's gods, 


Was laid on valor's crimson bed, 




Xor ever prouder gore 
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae I 


Sage beneath the spreading oak 

Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; 
Every burning word he spoke 




Full of rage and full of grief : 


Shout for the mighty men 




Who on the Persian tents. 
Like lions from their midnight den 
Bounding on the slumbering deer, 
Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 

Like the roused elements, 


Princess I if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
'Tis because resentment ties 

All the terrors of our tongues. 


Let loose from an immortal hand 
To chasten or to crush a land I 


Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt ; 


But there are none to hear — 

Greece is a hopeless slave. 


Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 


Leonidas ! no hand is near 

To lift thy iiery falchion now ; 

No warrior makes the warrior's vow 

Upon thy sea-washed grave. 
The voice that should be raised by men 


Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates I 


Must now be given by wave and glen. 






Other Romans shall arise. 


And it is given ! The surge, 

The tree, the rock, the sand 
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge. 


Heedless of a soldier's name : 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
Harmony the path to fame. 


In sounds that speak but to the free, 




The memory of thine and thee ! 


Then the progeny that springs 


The vision of thy band 


From the forests of our land, 


Still gleams within the glorious dell 


Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 


Where their gore hallowed as it fell I 


Shall a wider world command. 


And is thy grandeur done 1 


Regions Caesar never knew 


Mother of men like these ! 


Thy posterity shall sway ; 


Has not thy outcry gone 


Where his eagles never flew, 


Where justice has an ear to hear f 


None invincible as they. 


Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 




Till in thy crimsoned seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
Greece shall be a new-born star ! 


Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire, 
Bending as he swept the chords 


George Crolt. 


Of his sweet but awful lyre. 



356 



FOFJIS OF AJIBITIOX. 



She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow : 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Euffians. pitiless as proud. 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowper. 



Pericles anb '^Xspasia. 

This was the ruler of the land 

When Athens was the land of fame ; 

This was the light that led the band 
When each was like a living flame ; 

The centre of earth's noblest ring, 

Of more than men the more than king. 

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
His sovereignty was held or won ; 

Feared — but alone as freemen fear, 
Loved — but as freemen love alone, 

He wavecl the sceptre o'er his kind 

By nature's first great title, mind I 

Kesistless words were on his tongue : 
Then eloquence first flaslied below. 

Full armed to life the portent sprung, 
Minerva from the thunderer's brow ! 

And his the sole, the sacred hand 

That shook her e^gis o'er the land. 

And throned iminoptal by his side, 
A woman sits with eye sublime, 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride : 

But. if tht'ir solemn lovo were crime. 

Pity the Ijeauty and the sago — 

Their crime was in their darkened age. 

Ho perished, V)ut his wreath was won — 
Ho perished in his height of fame; 

Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun. 
Yet still she conquered in his name. 

Filk'd with his soul, she could not die; 

Her con«piest was posterity ! 

George Croly. 



^Ifrcb tlic §avpcx. 

Dark fell the night, the watch was set, 

The host was idly spread. 
The Danes around their watch-fires met, 

Caroused, and fiercely fed. 

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves, 

And Guthrum, king of all. 
Devoured the flesh of England's beeves, 

And laughed at England's fall. 
Each warrior proud, each Danish earl. 

In mail and wolf-skin clad. 
Their bracelets white with plundered pearl. 

Their eyes with triumph mad. 

From Humbcr-land to Severn-land, 

And on to Tamar stream. 
Where Thames makes green the towery strand, 

Where Medway's waters gleam. 
With hands of steel and mouths of flame 

They raged the kingdom through : 
And where the Norseman sickle came, 

Xo crop but hunger grew. 

They loaded many an English horse 

With wealth of cities fair; 
They dragged from many a father's corse 

The daughter by her hair. 
And English slaves, and gems and gold, 

Were gathered round the feast : 
Till midnight in their woodland hold. 

Oh ! never that riot ceased. 

In stalked a warrior tall and rude 

Before the strong sea-kings: 
'* Ye lords and earls of Odin's brood, 

Without a harper sings. 
He seems a simple man and poor. 

But well he sounds the lay ; 
And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure, 

Will ye the song repay.'' 

In trod the bard with keen cold look. 

And glanced along the boaixl. 
That with the shout and war-cry shook 

Of many a Danisli lord. 



ALFRED THE HARPER. 357 

■ 


But thirty brows, inflamed and stern, 


When conquests fade, and rule is o'er, 


Soon bent on him their gaze, 


The sod must close your eyes. 


While calm he gazed, as if to learn 


How soon, who knows? Xot chief, nor bard ; 


Who chief deserved his praise. 


And yet to me 'tis given 




To see your foreheads deeply scarred, 


Loud Guthrum spake, — " Xay, gaze not thus, 


And guess the doom of Heaven. 


Thou harper weak and poor ! 




By Thor ! who bandy looks with us 


" I may not read or when or how, 


Must worse than looks endure. 


But, earls and kings, be sure 


Sing high the praise of Denmark's host, 


I see a blade o'er every brow, 


High praise each dauntless earl ; 


Where pride now sits secure. 


The brave who stun this English coast > 


Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain ! 


With war's unceasing whirL" 


When chief and monarch fall. 




Their names in song shall breathe again, 


The harper slowly bent his head, 


And thrill the feastful halL" 


And touched aloud the string ; 




Then raised his face, and boldly said, 


Grim sat the chiefs ; one heaved a groan, 


" Hear thou my lay, king ! 


And one grew pale with dread, 


High praise from every mouth of man 


His iron mace was grasped by one, 


To all who boldly strive. 


By one his wine was shed. 


Who fall where first the fight began, 


And Guthrum cried, " Xay, bard, no more 


And ne'er go back alive. 


We hear thy boding lay ; 




Make drunk the song with spoil and gore ! 


" Fill high your cups, and swell the shout. 


Light up the joyous fray ! " 


At famous Regnar's name ! 




Who sank his host in bloody rout, 


"Quick throbs my brain," — so burst the 


When he to Humber came. 


song,— 


His men were chased, his sons were slain, 


" To hear the strife once more. 


And he was left alone. 


The mace, the axe, they rest too long ; 


They bound him in an iron chain 


Earth cries, My thirst is sore. 


Upon a dungeon stone. 


More blithely twang the strings of bows 




Than strings of harps in glee ; 


" With iron links they bound him fast ; 


Red wounds are lovelier than the rose, 


With snakes they filled the hole, 


Or rosy lips to me. 


That made his flesh their long repast, 




And bit into his soul. 


" Oh ! fairer than a field of flowers, 




When flowers in England grew, 


" Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes f 


Would be the battle's marshalled powers, 


Why champ your teeth in pain ? 


The plain of carnage new. 


Still lives the song though Regnar dies ! 


With all its deaths before my soul 


Fill high your cups again. 


The vision rises fair ; 


Ye too, perchance, Norseman lords ! 


Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl ! 


Who fought and swayed so long. 


I would that I were there ! " 


Shall soon but live in minstrel words. 




And owe your names to song. 


Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye 




Rolled fiercely round the throng ; 


" This land has graves by thousands more 


It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh. 


Than that where Regnar lies. 


Whose shock aroused the song. 

— _ 1 



358 



POEMS OF A3IBITI0N. 



A golden cup King Giithrum gave 

To him who strongly played ; 
And said,." I won it from the slave 

Who once o'er England swayed." 

King Guthrum cried, " 'Twas Alfred's own ; 

Thy song befits the brave : 
The king who cannot guard his throne 

Nor wine nor song shall have." 
The minstrel took the goblet bright, 

And said, " I drink the wine 
To him who owns by justest right 

The cup thou bid'st be mine. 

" To him, your lord, oh shout ye all ! 

His meed be deathless praise ! 
The king who dares not nobly fall, 

Dies basely all his days." 

" The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said, 

" With sweetness fills mine ear ; 
For Alfred swift before me fled, 

And left me monarch here. 
The royal coward never dared 

Beneath mine eye to stand. 
Oh, would that now this feast he shared, 

And saw me rule his land ! " 

Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake, 

And gazed upon the king, — 
" Not now the golden cup I take, 

Nor more to thee I sing. 
Another day, a happier hour, 

Shall bring me here again : 
The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power 

Till I demand it then." 

The harper turned and left the shed, 

Nor bent to Guthrum's crown : 
And one who marked his visage said 

It wore a giiastly frown. 
The Danes ne'er saw that harper more. 

For, soon as morning rose. 
Upon their camp King Alfred bore, 

And slew ten thousand foes. 

John Sterling. 



®lie BuU-i'iglit of (5a^nl. 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trum- 
pet sound, 

He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from the 
hills and plains around ; 

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 

They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and 
twisted steel. 

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty 
and state, 

And they have closed the spacious lists beside the 
Alhambra's gate ; 

In gowns of black, and silver-laced, within the tent- 
ed ring. 

Eight Moors, to fight the bull, are placed in pres- 
ence of the king. 

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart 
arm and true, 

The onset of the beasts abide, come trooping furi- 
ous through ; 

The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill 
all with hope and trust ; 

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all 
have bit the dust. 

Then sounds the trumpet clearly ; then clangs the 

loud tambour : 
Make room, make room for Gazul — throw wide, 

throw wide the door ! 
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly 

strike the drum — 
The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come ! 

And first before the king he passed, with reverence 
stooping low. 

And next he bowed him to the queen, and the in- 
fantas all a-rowe ; 

Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him 
(lid throw 

A scarf from out her balcony, was whiter than the 
snow. 

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all 

slijipery is the sand. 
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'cn his 

stand ; 



CHEVY-CHASE. 



359 



And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords 

with anxious eye, 
But the lance is firmly in its rest, and his look 

is calm and high. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two 

come roaring on ; 
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his 

rejon ; 
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him 

such a blow. 
He blindly totters and gives back, across the sand 

to go. 

" Turn, Gazul, turn," the people cry — " the third 

comes up behind ; 
Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils 

snuff the wind ; " 
The mountaineers that lead the steers without 

stand whispering low, 
" Now thinks this proud Alcayde to stun Harpado 

so?" 

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from 

Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the 

hill ; 
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's 

waters clear, 
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud 

and stately steer. 

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within 

doth boil ; 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to 

the turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of 

snow; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass 

upon the foe. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand 

close and near, 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers 

they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old 

knotted tree, 
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like billows 

curled, ye see. 



His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are 

black as night. 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of 

his might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from 

forth the rock, 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's 

shock. 

Now stops the drum — close, close they come — 

thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's 

breast of black — 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front 

of dun : 
Once more advance upon his lance — once more, 

thou fearless one ! 

Once more, once more — in dust and gore to ruin 

must thou reel ; 
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious 

heel — 
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee 

stagger ; 
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern 

Alcayde's dagger ! 

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six 
horses are brought in. 

And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joy- 
ful din. 

Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring 
of price bestow 

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado 

low. 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 
Translation of John Gibson Lockhart. 



God prosper long our noble king. 

Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Earl Percy took his way ; 
The child may rue that is unborn 

The hunting of that day. 



360 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



The stout earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer days to take — 

The chiefest harts in Che\^-Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay ; 

Who sent Earl Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English earl, not fearing that, 
Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold. 
All chosen men of might, 

Who knew full well in time of need 
To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 
To chase the fallow deer ; 

On Monday they began to hunt 
When day-light did appear ; 



And long before high noon they had 


" Show me," said he, " whose men you be, 




A hundred fat bucks slain ; 


That hunt so boldly here. 




Then having dined, the drovers went 


That, without my consent, do chase 




To rouse the deer again. 


And kill my fallow-deer." 




The bowmen mustered on the hills, 


The first man that did answer make, 




Well able to endure ; 


Was noble Percy he — 




And all their rear, with special care. 


Who said, " We list not to declare. 




That day was guarded sure. 


Nor show whose men we be : 




The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 


" Yet will we spend our dearest blood 




The nimble deer to take. 


Thy chiefest harts to slay." 




That with their cries the hills and dales 


Then Douglas swore a solemn oath. 




An cclio shrill did make. 


And thus in rage did say : 




Lord Percy to the quaiTy went, 


" Ere thus I will out-braved be. 




To view the slaughtered deer : 


One of us two shall die ; 




Quotli he, " Earl Doughis promised 


I know theo well, an earl thou art — 




This day to meet me here ; 


Loril Percy, so am I. 




"But if 1 thought he wouhl not come. 


•" But trust me, Percy, pity it were, 




No longer would I stay ; " 


And great offence, to kill 




With that a brave young gentleman 


Any of these our guiltless men, 




Thus to the earl did sav : 


For they have done no ill. 





" Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 

Plis men in armor bright ; 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 

" All men of pleasant Teviotdale, 

Fast by the river Tweed ; " 
" Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, 

" And take your bows with speed ; 

'• And now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For never was there champion yet, 

In Scotland or in France, 

" That ever did on horseback come, 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man. 

With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold. 
Rode foremost of his company. 

Whose armor shone like gold. 



CHEVY-CHASE. 361 


" Let you and me the battle try, 


In truth, it was a grief to see 


And set our men aside." 


How each one chose his spear, 


" Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, 


And how the blood out of their breasts 


"By whom this is denied." 


Did gush like water clear. 


Then stepped a gallant squire forth, 


At last these two stout earls did meet ; 


Witherington was his name, 


Like captains of great might. 


Who said, " I would not hare it told 


Like lions wode, they laid on lode. 


To Henry, our king, for shame, 


And made a cruel fight. 


" That e'er my captain fought on foot, 


They fought until they both did sweat, 


And I stood looking on. 


With swords of tempered steel. 


You two be earls," said Witherington, 


Until the blood, like drops of rain. 


" And I a squire alone ; 


They trickling down did feel. 


" I'll do the best that do I may. 


" Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said ; 


While I have power to stand ; 


" In faith I will thee bring 


While I have power to wield my sword, 


Where thou shalt high advanced be 


I'll fight with heart and hand." 


By James, our Scottish king. 


Our English archers bent their bows — 


" Thy ransom I will freely give, 


Their hearts were good and true ; 


And this report of thee. 


At the first flight of arrows sent. 


Thou art the most courageous knight 


FuU fourscore Scots they slew. 


That ever I did see." 


Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, 


" Xo, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, 


As chieftain stout and good ; 


'' Thy proffer I do scorn ; 


As valiant captain, all unmoved. 


I will not yield to any Scot 


The shock he firmly stood. 


That ever yet was born." 


His host he parted had in three, 


W ith that there came an arrow keen 


As leader ware and tried ; 


Out of an English bow, 


And soon his spearmen on their foes 


Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart. 


Bore down on every side. 


A deep and deadly blow ; 


Throughout the English archery 


Who never spake more words than these : 


They dealt full many a wound ; 


" Fight on, my merry men all ; 


But still our valiant Englishmen 


For why, my life is at an end ; 


All firmly kept their ground. 


Lord Percy sees my faU." 


And throwing straight their bows away, 


Then leaving life, Earl Percy took 


They grasped their swords so bright ; 


The dead man by the hand ; 


And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. 


And said, " Earl Douglas, for thy life 


On shields and helmets light. 


Would I had lost my land. 


They closed full fast on every side — . 


" In truth, my very heart doth bleed 


Xo slackness there was found ; 


With sorrow for thy sake ; 


And many a gallant gentleman 


For sure a more redoubted knight i. 


Lay gasping on the ground. 


Mischance did never take." 



363 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



A knight amongst the Scots there was 

Who saw Earl Douglas die, 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Earl Percy. 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, 
Who, with a spear full bright, 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight ; 

And past the English archere all, 

Without a dread or feat" ; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear ; 

With such A'ehement force and might 

He did his body gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 

So thus did both these nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble earl was slain. 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

To the hard head haled he. 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery 

So right the shaft he set. 
The gray goose wing that was thereon 

In his heart's blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun : 
For when they rung the evening-bell, 

Tlie battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Percy there were slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff. and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron. 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
I^th knights of good account, 

Good Sir l{alj)h ]{aby there was slain. 
Whose prowess did surmount. 



For AVitherington my heart is wo 

That ever he slain should be, 
For when his legs were hewn in two. 

He knelt and fought on his knee. 

And with Earl Douglas there was slain 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too — 

His sister's son was he ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

But saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Earl Douglas die : 
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, 

Scarce fifty-five did fly. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three ; 
The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come. 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away ; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times, 

Ere they were clad in clay. 

The news was brought to Edinburgh, 
Where Scotland's king did reign, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain : 

" Oh heavy news," King James did say ; 

" Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he." 

Like tidings to King Henry came 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Xorthumberland 

Was slain in Chew-Chase: 



THE BALLAD OF AGING OURT. 363 


" Now God be with him," said our king, 


To the king sending ; ^ 


" Since 'twill no better be ; 


Which he neglects the while, 


I trust I have within my realm 


As from a nation vile, 


Five hundred as good as he : 


Yet, with an angry smile. 




Their fall portending. 


" Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say- 




But I will vengeance take : 


And turning to his men. 


I'll be revenged on them all, 


Quoth our brave Henry then : 


For brave Earl Percy's sake." 


Though they to one be ten, 




Be not amazed ; 


This vow full well the king performed 


Yet have we well begun — 


After at Humbledown ; 


Battles so bravely won 


In one day fifty knights were slain, 


Have ever to the sun 


With lords of high renown ; 


By fame been raised. 


i^id of the best, of small account, 


And for myself, quoth he, 


Did many hundreds die : 


This my full rest shall be ; 


Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, 


England ne'er mourn for me. 


Made by the Earl Percy. 


Nor more esteem me. 




Victor I will remain. 


God save the king, and bless this land. 


Or on this earth lie slain ; 


With plenty, joy, and peace ; 


7 

Never shall she sustain 


And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 


Loss to redeem me. 


'Twixt noblemen may cease ! 




Anoijymous. 


Poitiers and Cressy tell, 




When most their pride did swell, 




Under our swords they fell ; 


^\)t Ballab of ^gincourt. * 


No less our skill is 




Than when our grandsire great. 


Fair stood the wind for France, 


Claiming the regal seat. 


When we our sails advance. 


By many a warlike feat 


Nor now to prove our chance 


Lopped the French lilies. 


Longer will tarry ; 




But putting to the main. 


The Duke of York so dread 


At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 


The eager vaward led ; 


With all his martial train. 


With the main Henry sped. 


Landed King Harry. 


Amongst his henchmen. 




Excester had the rear — 


And taking many a fort. 


A braver man not there : 


Furnished in warlike sort, 


Lord ! how hot they were 


Marched towards Agincourt 


On the false Frenchmen ! 


In happy hour — 




Skirmishing day by day 


They now to fight are gone ; 


With those that stopped his way. 


Armor on armor shone ; 


Where the French gen'ral lay 


Drum now to drum did groan — 


With all his power. 


To hear was wonder ; 


^ 


That with the cries they make 


Which in his height of pride, 


The very earth did shake ; 


King Henry to deride. 


Trumpet to trumpet spake. 


His ransom to provide 


Thunder to thunder. 



364 


POEMS OF 


AMBITIOy. 




Well it thine age became, 


Suffolk his axe did ply ; 




noble Erpingham I 


Beaumont and Willoughby 




Which did the signal aim 


Bare them right doughtily, 




To our hid forces ; 


Ferrers and Fanhope. 




When, from a meadow by, 






Like a storm suddenly. 


Upon Saint Crispin's day 




The English archery 


Fought was this noble fray. 




Struck the French horses, 


Which fame did not delay 
To England to carry ; 




With Spanish yew so strong, 


Oh. when shall Englishmen 




Arrows a cloth-yard long, 


With such acts fill a pen, 




That like to serpents stung, 


Or England breed again 




Piercing the weather ; 


Such a King Harry ? 




None from his fellow starts. 


Michael Drayton. 




But playing manly parts, 






And like true English hearts, 






Stuck close together. 


Z\)t Barb. 




When down their bows they threw. 






And forth their bilbows drew. 


I. 1. 




And on the French they flew, 


" Ruix seize thee, ruthless King ! 




Xot one was tardy ; 


Confusion on thy banners wait ; 




Arms were from shoulders sent ; 


Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing. 




Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 


They mock the air with idle state. 




Down the French peasants went ; 


Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 




Our men were hardy. 


Xor e'en thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 




This while our noble king, 


From Cambria's cui-se, from Cambria's tears ! " 




His broadsword brandishing, 


Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 




Down the French host did ding. 


Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 




As to o'erwhelm it ; 


As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 




And many a deep wound lent. 


He wound with toilsome march his long array. 




His arms with blood Ijesprent, 


Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : 




And many a cruel dent 


" To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'- 




Bruised his helmet. 


ring lance. 




Glo'ster, that duke so good. 


I. 2. 




Next of the royal blood. 


On a rock, whose haughty brow 




For famous England stood. 


Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood. 




With his brave brother — 


Robed in the sable garb of woe, . 




Clarence, in steel so bright. 


With haggard eyes the poet stood : J 




Though but a maiden knight. 


(Loose his beard, and hoary hair { 




Yet in that furious fight 


Stream'd. like a meteor, to the troubled air) 




Scarce such another. 


And with a ma.ster's hand, and prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 




Warwick in blood did wade : 


*' Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 




Oxfi»rd the foe invjvde. 


Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 




And cruel slaughter made. 


O'er thee, Kinir I their hundred arms they wave. 




Still as they ran up. 


Revenge on tliee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 



THE BARD. 



365 



Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

I. 3. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 

That hush'd the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale ; 
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

II. 1. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 

Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When SeveiTi shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkeley's roof that 

ring. 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him 

wait ! 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd. 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

II. 2. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 



Is the sable warrior fled i 

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were 

born, 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyi' 

blows. 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening 

prey. 

II. 3. 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
The rich repast prepare, 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast ; 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray. 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 

Long years of havoc urge their destined 
course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their 
way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled Boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom. 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
doom. 

III. 1. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is wove. The work is done.) 
Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 



366 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Visions of glory, spare my aching sight 1 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! 

III. 2. 

" Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air. 

What strains of vocal transport round her 
play ! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored 
wings. 

III. 3. 

" The verse adorn again 

Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 

A voice, as of the cherub-choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 

That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine 
cloud, 

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of 
day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enougli for me ; with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, 

To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's 

height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless 



night. 



Thomas Gray. 



^\)t QTanalicr's Song. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum. 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And oh ! the thundering presse of knightes, 

Whenas their war-cryes swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants all, 

And don your helmes amaine ; 
Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish feares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt 's in our hand — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and puling crye ; 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die ! 

William Motherwell. 



prince (!:u9cnc. 

Prince Eugene, our nol)lG leader, 
Made a vow in death to bleed, or 

Win the emperor back Belgrade : 
'* Launch pontoons, let all be ready 
To })ear our ordnance safe and steady 

Over the Danube" — thus he said. 

There was mustering on the border 
When our bridge in marching order 

Breasted first the roaring stream; 
Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing, 
We encamped to scourge the heathen 

Back to Mahound, and fame redeem. 

'Twas on August one-and-twcnty, 
Scouts and glorious tidings plenty 



1 ' -^ - ...-,.. 

IVBY. 367 


Galloped in, through storm and rain ; 


O'er his grave due honors paid : 


Turks, they swore, three hundred thousand 


Then, the old black eagle flying, 


Marched to give our prince a rouse, and 


All the pagan powers defying. 


Dared us forth to battle-plain. 


Ofl we marched and stormed Belgrade. 




Anontmocs. (German.) 


Then at Prince Eugene's head-quarters 


Translation of JoffN* Hughes. 


Met our fine old fighting Tartars 




Generals and field marshals all ; 




Every point of war debated. 


JJnrti. 


Each in his turn the signal waited, 




Forth to march and on to fall. 


Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all 




glories are I 


For the onslaught all were eager 


And glorv to our sovereign liege, King Henry of 


When the word sped round our leaguer : 


Xavarre ! 


" Soon as the clock chimes twelve to-night 


Xow let there be the merry sound of music and 


Then, bold hearts, sound boot and saddle, 


the dance. 


Stand to your arms, and on to battle. 


Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, 


Every one that has hands to fight ! " 


pleasant land of France I 




And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city 


Musqueteers, horse, yagers, forming. 


of the waters. 


Sword in hand each bosom warming, 


Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 


Still as death we all advance ; 


ing daughters ; 


Each prepared, come blows or booty, 


As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 


German-like to do our duty. 


For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought 


Joining hands in the gallant dance. 


thy walls annoy. 




Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 


Our cannoneers, those tough old heroes, 


chance of war 1 


Struck a lusty peal to cheer us, 


Hurrah ! hurrah I for I\ r\ , and Henry of Navarre. 


Firing ordnance great and small ; 




Right and left our cannon thundered, 


Oh I how our hearts were beating, when, at the 


Till the pagans cpaked, and wondered. 


dawn of day. 


And by platoons began to fall. 


We saw the army of the league drawu out in long 


On the right, like a lion angered, 


array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel 


Bold Eugene cheered on the bold vanguard ; 


peers, 


Ludovic spurred up and down. 


And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's 


Crying " On. boys ; eveiy hand to 't ; 


Flemish spears. 


Brother Germans, nobly stand to 't ; 


There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 


Charge them home, for our old renown ! " 


of our land ; 




And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 


Gallant prince I he spoke no more ; he 


in his hand ; 


Fell in early youth and glory. 


And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 


Struck from his horse by some curst ball : 


empurpled flood. 


Great Eugene long sorrowed o'er him", 


And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with 


For a brother's love he bore him : 


his blood ; 


Every soldier mourned his fall. 


And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 




fate of war, 


In Waradin we laid his ashes ; 


To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of 


Cannon peals and musket flashes 


Xavarre. 



368 



POEJIS OF AJIBITIOX. 



The king is come to mai-shal us. in all his armor 

drest : 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye : 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 

stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from 

wing to wing. 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God save 

our lord the king I 
" And if mv standard-l^earer fall, as fall full well 

he may — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody 

fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst 

the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Na- 
varre." 

Hurrah I the foes are moving. Hark to the min- 
gled din. 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and dram, and roar- 
ing culverin. 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's 
plain. 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 
Almapie. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 
of France. 

Charge for the golden hlies — upon them with the 
lance I 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 
spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 
snow-white crest ; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like 
a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 
Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Mayenne 

hath tunied his rein : 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish 

count is slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a 

Biscay gale : 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, 

and cloven mail. 



And then we thought on vengeance, and. all along 

our van, 
Rememl^er Saint Bartholomew ! was passed from 

man to man. 
But out spake gentle Heun* — " Nq Frenchman is 

my foe : 
Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your 

brethren go." 
Oh I was there ever such a knight, in friendship or 

in war. 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of 

Navarre f 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought 

for France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight : 
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet 

white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of 

false Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the host 

may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which 

wrought His Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their 

loudest point of war. 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henn* 
of Navarre. 

Ho I maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne — 
Weep. weep, and rend your hair for those who 

never shall return. 
Ho I Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 

spearmen's souls. 
Ho I gallant nobles of the league, look that your 

anns be bright : 
Hoi burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and 

ward to-night : 
For our God hath crushed the tjTant, our God 

hath raised the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor 

of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all 

glories are : 

And glor}- to our sovereign lord. King Henry of 

Navarre ! 

Lord Macaulat. 



NASEBY, 369 




1 
To whom used my boy George quaff else. 


Sannock-jSurn. 


By the old fool's side that begot him ? 




For whom did he cheer and laugh else. 


ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 


While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 


Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — 


King Charles, and who '11 do him right now 9 


Scots, wham Bruce has af ten led — 


King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now 9 


Welcome to your gory bed. 


Give a rouse : here 's in hell's despite now, 


Or to Victoria ! 


King Charles! 




Egbert Browning. 


Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 




See the front o' battle lower ; 




See approach proud Edward's power — 


^asebg. 


Chains and slaverie ! 


Wha will be a traitor knave ? 


Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the 


Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 


north. 


Wha sae base as be a slave ? 


With your hands, and your feet, and your rai- 


Let him turn and fiee ! 


ment all red ? 




And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous 


Wha for Scotland's king and law 


shout ? 


Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 


And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that 


Freeman stand or freeman fa' — 


ye tread ? 


Let him follow me ! 




By oppression's woes and pains ! 


Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the 


By your sons in servile chains ! 


fruit. 


We will drain our dearest veins. 


And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 


But they shall be free ! 


we trod; 


' 


For we trampled on the throng of the haughty 


Lay the proud usurpers low ! 


and the strong, 


Tyrants fall in CA'ery foe ! 


W ho sate in the high places and slew the saints 


Liberty 's in every blow ! 


of God. 


Let us do, or die ! 




Robert Burns. 


It was about the noon of a glorious day of 




June, 




That we saw their banners dance and their cui- 


©be a House. 


rasses shine. 




And the man of blood was there, with his long es- 


King Charles, and who '11 do him right now ? 


senced hair. 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of 
the Rhine. 


King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here 's in hell's despite now. 
King Charles ! 


Who gave me the goods that went since f 


Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible and his 


Who raised me the house that sank once? 


sword, 


Who helped me to gold 1 spent since ? 


The general rode along us to form us for the 


Who found me in wine you drank once ? 


fight; 


King Charles^ and icho 11 do him right now ? 


WHien a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled 


King Charles, and loho 's ripe for fight now 9 


into a shout 


Give a rouse : here^s in helVs despite noio, 


Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 


King Charles / 
26 


right 



370 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the 
shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging 
line: 
For God ! for the cause ! for the Church I for the 
laws ! 
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine ! 

The furious German coraes, with his clarions and 
his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- 
hall; 
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your 
pikes ! Close your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to 
fall. 

They are here — they rush on — we are broken — 
we are gone — 
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 
blast. 
Lord, put forth thy might ! Lord, defend the 
right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it 
to the last ! 

Stout Skippcn hath a wound — the centre hath 
given ground. 
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horse- 
men on our rear? 
Whose banner do I see, boys ? ' Tis he ! thank 
God ! 'tis he, boys ! 
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is 
here ! 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a 
row : 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on 
the dikes, 
Our cuirassiers have bui*st on the ranks of the ac- 
curst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his 
pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to 
hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Tem- 
ple Bar ; 



And he — he turns ! he flies I shame on those cruel 
eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look 
on war ! 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye strip 
the slain. 
First give another stab to make your search se- 
cure ; 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- 
pieces and lockets. 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 
poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your 
hearts were gay and bold, 
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans 
to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in 
the rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the 
prey. 

Wliere be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, 
and hell, and fate ? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with 
your blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and 
your oaths % 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your dia- 
monds and your spades i 

Down ! down ! for ever down, with the mitre and 
the crown ! 
With the Belial of the court, and (he Mammon 
of the Pope ! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Dur- 
ham's stalls ; . 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends 
his cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil- 
dren's ills, 
And tromlilc when she thinks on the edge of 
England's sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 

houses and the word I 

Lord Macaulay. 



AN EORATIAN ODE. 371 




Though justice against fate complain, 


^n ^oratian ©be. 


And plead the ancient rights in vain — 
But those do hold or break, 


UPON Cromwell's return from Ireland. 


As men are strong or weak. 


The forward youth that would appear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear ; 
Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing. 


Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration less. 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 


'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armor's rust ; 
Removing from the wall 
The corslet of the hall. 


What field of all the civil war, 
Where his were not the deepest scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art : 


So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace. 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star ; 


Where, twining subtle fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case ; 


And like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst. 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide. 


That thence the royal actor borne, 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 
VV hile round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands. 


For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And, with such, to enclose 
Is more than to oppose. 


He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene ; 
But with his keener eye 
The axe's edge did try : 


Then burning through the air he went. 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Caesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 


Nor called the gods, with Amlgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 


'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry heaven's flame ; 
And, if we would speak true, 
Much to the man is due, 


This was that memorable hour. 
Which first assured the forced power ; 

So, when they did design 

The Capitol's first line. 


Who, from his private gardens, where 


A bleeding head, where they begun, 


He lived reserved and austere. 


Did fright the architects to run ; 


(As if his highest plot 


And 3'et in that the state 


To plant the bergamot,) 


Foresaw its happy fate. 


Could by industrious valor climb 


And now the Irish are ashamed 


To ruin the great work of time, 


To see themselves in one year tamed ; 


And cast the kingdoms old 


So much one man can do, 


Into another mould ! 


That does both act and know. 



372 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


They can affirm his praises best. 


Besides the force it has to fright 


And have, though overcome, confest 


The spirits of the shady night, 


How good he is, how just, 


The same arts that did gain 


And fit for highest trust : 


A power, must it maintain. 




Andrew SIarv-ell. 


Nor yet grown stiffer by command, 




But still in the republic's hand, 




How fit he is to sway 


^^ 


That can so well obey. 


Sonnets. 




TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 


He to the commons' feet presents 




A kingdom for his first year's rents, 


Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 


And, what he may, forbears 


cloud 


His fame to make it theirs : 


Not of war only, but detractions rude, 




Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 


And has his sword and spoils ungirt, 


To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 


To lay them at the public's skirt. 


ploughed, 


So when the falcon high 


And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 


Falls heavy from the sky. 


Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur- 
sued. 
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots im- 


She, having killed, no more does search 


But on the next green bough to perch 


brued, 


Where, when he first does lure, 


And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loiid, 


The falconer has her sure. 


And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re- 




mains 


What may not then our isle presume, 


To conquer still : peace hath her victories 


While victory his orest does plume? 


Xo less renowned than war. New foes arise 


What may not others fear 


Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: 


If thus he crowns each year t 


Help us to save free conscience from the paw 




Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 


As Capsar he. ere long, to Gaul ; 




To Italy an Hannibal ; 


when the assault was intended to the city. 


xVnd to all states not free 


Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms. 


Shall climacteric be. 


Whose chance on these defenceless doors may 




seize, 


The Pict no shelter now shall find 


If deed of honor did thee ever please, 


Within his parti-colored mind ; 


Guard them, and him within protect from 


But from this valor sjid 


harms. 


Shrink uudornoath the plaid. 


He can requite thee, for ho knows the charms 




That call fame on such gentle acts as these. 


Happy, if in the tufted brake 


And he can spread thy name o'er lands and 


The English hunter him mistake, 


seas, 


Nor lay his hounds in near 


Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 


The Caledonian deer. 


Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower: 




The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare 


But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 


The house of Pindarus. when temple and tower 


March indefatigably on ; 


Went to the ground : and the ivpeated air 


And, for the last effect, 


Of sjid Elect ra's poet had the power 


Still keep the sword erect ! 


To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 



WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING. 



TO CYRIAC SKINXER. 

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear 
To outward view of blemish or of spot, 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
iSTor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask f 
The conscience, friend, t' have lost them over- 
plied 

In liberty's defence, my noble task, 

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's 
vain mask, 
Content though blind, had I no better guide. 

John Miltok. 



tX)l]en Banners are toauing, 

Whex banners are waving. 

And lances a-pushing ; 
When captains are shouting, 

And war-horses rushing ; 
When cannon are roaring, 

And hot bullets flying, 
He that would honor win, 

Must not fear dying. 

Though shafts fly so thick 

That it seems to be snowing ; 
Though streamlets with blood 

More than water are flowing ; 
Though with sabre and bullet 

Our bravest are dying, 
We speak of revenge, but 

We ne'er speak of flying. 

Come, stand to it, heroes ! 

The heathen are coming ; 
Horsemen are round the walls, 

Riding and running ; 
Maidens and matrons all 

Arm ! arm ! are crying, 
From petards the wildfire 's 

Flashing and flying. 



The trumpets from turrets high 

Loudly are braying ; 
The steeds for the onset 

Are snorting and neighing ; 
As waves in the ocean, 

The dark plumes are dancing ; 
As stars in the blue sky, 

The helmets are glancing. 

Their ladders are planting. 

Their sabres are sweeping ; 
Now swords from our sheaths 

By the thousand are leaping; 
Like the flash of the levin 

Ere men hearken thunder, 
Swords gleam, and the steel caps 

Are cloven asunder. 

The shouting has ceased. 

And the flashing of cannon ! 
I looked from the turret 

For crescent and pennon : 
As flax touched by fire, 

As hail in the river, 
They were smote, they were fallen, 

And had melted for ever. 

Anonymous. 



®l)e €ot)enanters' Battle-^ljant. 

To battle ! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sad, broken covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great Grod of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer, and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong. 
Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 

And onward they come. 
To the vain noise of trumpet. 

Of cymbal, and drum. 



374 


POEMS OF 


AMBITIOS. 




They haste to the onslaught, 


When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of 




With hagbut and spear ; 


Zion, 




They lust for a banquet 


All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 




That 's deathful and dear. 






Now horseman and footman 


'Twas morning ; and summer's young sun from 




Sweep down the hill-side ; 


the east 




They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 


Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's 




To die in their pride ! 


breast ; 
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining 




See, long plume and pennon 


dew 




Stream gay in the air ! 


Glistened there 'mong the heath-bells and moun- 




They are given us for slaughter, 


tain flowers blue. 




Shall God's people spare ? 






Nay, nay ; lop them off — 


And far up in heaven, near the white sunny 




Friend, father, and son ; 


cloud, 




All earth is athirst till 


The song of the lark was melodious and loud ; 




The good work be done. 


And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and 
deep. 




Brace tight every buckler, 


Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of 




And lift high the sword I 


sheep. 




For biting must blades be 






That fight for the Lord. 


And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and 




Remember, remember, 


gladness — 




How saints' blood was shed, 


The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and 




As free as the rain, and 


redness ; 




Homes desolate made ! 


Its daughters were happy to hail the returning. 
And drink the delight of July's sweet morning. 




Among them ! — among them ! 






Unburied bones cry: 


But, oh I there were hearts cherished far other 




Avenge us, — or, like us. 


feelings. 




Faith's true mart}Ts die ! 


Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings ; 




Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 


Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sor- 




Slay on, and spare none ; 


row, 




Then shout forth in gladness. 


For they knew that their blood would bedew it to- 




Heaven's battle is won ! 


morrow. 




William ^Iotherwell. 


'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron 
were lying 




(Tlic (Camcronian's Dream. 


Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl 
was crying ; 


; In 


a dream of the night I was wafted away 


For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were 


1 To 


the muirland of mist, where the martyrs lay; 


hovering. 


Wl 


lere Cameron's sword and his bible are seen. 


And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty 


Engraved on the stone where the heather grows 


covering. 




green. 


Their fates grew pale, and their swords were un- 


'Tvvas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood 


sheathed, 


When the minister's home was the mountain and 


But the vengeance that darkened their brow was 


i 


wood ; 


unbreathed ; 



THE BONNETS OF BONNIE DUNDEE, 



375 



With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, 
They sang their last song to the God of salva- 
tion. 

The hills with the deep mournful music were ring- 
ing, 
The curlew and plover in concert were singing ; 
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter, 
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter. 

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they 
were shrouded. 

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm ana un- 
clouded ; 

Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and un- 
bending. 

They stood like the rock which the thunder is 
rending. 

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were 
gleaming, 

The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was 
streaming. 

The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was roll- 
ing, 

Wlien in "Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty 
were falling. 

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat 
was ended, 

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud de- 
scended ; 

Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness. 

And its burning wheels turned upon axles of 
brightness. 

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining. 
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, 
And the souls that came forth out of great tribu- 
lation. 
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salva- 
tion. 

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding. 
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are 

riding — 
Glide swiftly, bright spirits; the prize is before 

ye— 

A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory ! 

James Htslop. 



®l)e Bonnets of !3onnie IDunbee. 

To the lords of convention 'twas Claverhouse who 

spoke, 
" Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns 

to be broke ; 
So let each cavalier who loves honor and me 
Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; 
Come open the Wesfporf and let us gang free, 
And ifs room for the honiiets of honnie Dundee ! 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, • 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are 
beat ; 

But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let 
him be. 

The gude toun is well quit of that deil of Dun- 
dee ! " 

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie 
and slee. 

Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dun- 
dee ! 

With sour-featured whigs the grass-market was 
thranged, 

As if half the w^est had set tryst to be hanged : 

There was spite in each look, there was fear in 
each ce, 

As they watched for the bonnets of bonnie Dun- 
dee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had 

spears. 
And lang-haf ted gullies to kill cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway 

was free 
At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke : 

" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words 

or three, 
For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee." 



376 



POEMS OF AMBITIOX. 



The Gordon demands of him which way he goes. 
" Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose ! 
Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

" There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond 
Forth ; 

If the)-e's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in 
the north ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times 
three 

Will cry ' Hoigh ! ' for the bonnet of bonnie Dun- 
dee. 

" There 's brass on the target of barkened bull- 
hide, 

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles be- 
side ; 

The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash 
free, 

At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, 
Ere I own an usurper I'll couch with the fox ; 
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your 

glee. 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me." 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 

blown. 
The kettle-drums clashed, and tiie horsemen rode 

on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea 
Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up 7Jiy can ; 
Come saddle the horses, and calf up ihe men ; 
Come open i/our doors and let me yae free. 
For it's up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Cocliabcr no more. 

Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, 
Where licartsome with thee I hae mony day been ! 
For Locliaher no more, Lochaber no more, 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! 
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear. 
And no for the dangers attending on war, 



Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise ever}^ wind. 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my 

mind ; 
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving iny love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse ; 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
And without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 

Allan Rajisat. 



(t liar lie is mii Darling. 

'TwAS on a Monday morning 

Richt early in the year. 
That Charlie cam' to our toun, 

The young chevalier. 

And Charlie he's my darling, 
31y darling, my darling ; 

Cliarlie he's my darling. 
The young chevalier ! 

As he was walking up the street, 

The city for to view. 
Oh, there he spied a bonny lass 

The window looking through. 

Say licht 's he jumped up the stair, 

And tirled at the pin ; 
And wha sae ready as hersel' 

To let the laddie in i 

He set his .Jenny on liis knee, 
All in his Highland dress; 

For brawly weel he kenned the way 
To please a bonnie lass. 



HEBE 'S A HEALTH TO THE 31 THAT'S AW A. 377 


It's up on yon heathery mountain, 


Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 


And down yon scroggy glen, 


Success to Kenmure's band : 


VV e dauma gang a-milking. 


There's no a heart that fears a whig 


For Charlie and his men. 


That rides by Kenmure's hand. 


And Charlie he^s my darling^ 


Here's Kenmui-e's health in wine, \\ iliie ! 


J[y darling, my darling ; 


Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 


Charlie he 's my darling, 


There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 


The young chevalier I 


Xor vet o' Gordon's line. 


AxoN-oiors. 


' 




Oh. Kenmure's lads are men. Willie ! 


• 


Oh. Kenmure's lads are men : 


Zi)c tJ3aiiant (Sratjams. 


Their hearts and swords are metal true — 




And that their faes shall ken. 


To wear the blue 1 think it best, 




Of a" the colors that I see : 


They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 


And I'll wear it for the gallant Grahams 


They'll live or die wi' fame ; 


That are banished frae their ain countrie. 


But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 




3Iay Kenmure's lord come hame. 


I'U crown them east. I'll crown them west, 




The bravest lads that e'er I saw ; . 


Here's him that's far awa. Willie ! 


They lx)re the gree in free fighting. 


Here's him that's far awa : 


And ne'er were slack theii" swords to di'aw. 


And here's the flower that I love best — 




The rose that's like the snaw. 


They wan the day wi' Wallace wight ; 


Egbert Burks. 


They were the lords o' the south countrie ; 




Cheer up your hearts, brave cavaliers, 




TiU the gallant Grahams come o'er the sea. 


/-» 1 /"^ 1 1 '^fc' 1 . 1 . '1 ^^i 


C5 


^cxc 5 a ^caltli to Zhcm tljats ^toa. 


At the Gouk head, where their camp was set. 
They rade the white horse and the gray, 

4 9 1 • • ^1 " 1 j_ T 




Here's a health to them that's awa, 


And here's to them that's awa ; 


A glancmg m then- plated armor, 
As the gowd shines in a summer's dav. 




And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 


o • 


May never guid luck be their fa' ! 


But woe to Hacket, and Strachan baith, 


It's guid to be merry and wise. 


And ever an ill death may they die. 


It's guid to be honest and time, 


• For they betrayed the gallant Grahams, 


It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 


That aye were true to majesty. 


And bide by the bnff and the blue. 


Xow fare ye weel. sweet Ennerdale, 


Here's a health to them that's awa, 


Baith kith and kin that I could name ; 


And here's to them that's awa ; 


Oh. I would sell my silken snood 


Here's a health to CharUe, the chief o' the clan, 


To see the gallant Grahams come hame. 


Altho" that his baud be sma'. 


ANONYMOUS. 


May Liberty meet wi' success ! 




May Prudence protect her fra evil I 




May t}Tants and t%Tanny tine in the mist, 


Hcnmnrc's ®n anb ^roa. 


And wander their way to the devil I 


Oh. Kenmiire's on and awa. Willie! 


Here's a health to them that's awa, 


Oh. Kenmure's on and awa I 


And here's to them that's awa : 


And Kenmure's lord 's the bravest lord 


Here's a health to Tammie. the Xorland laddie, 


That ever Galloway saw. 


That lives at the lug o' the law ! 



378 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever feared that the truth should be 
heard 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

And here's to them that's awa ; 
Here's Maitland and Wycombe, and wha does na 
like 'em 

We'll build in a hole o' the wa'. 
Here's t immer that's red at the heart, 

Here's fruit that's sound at the core ! 
May he that would turn the buff and blue coat 

Be turned to the back o' the door. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

And here's to them that's awa ; 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftaiti worth gowd, 

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed ; 
And wha would betray old Albion's rights. 

May they never eat of her bread ! 

Robert Burns. 



CodjicTs tDtirning. 

Wizard. Lochiel. 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array I 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight. 
And the chins of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 

crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down I 
Proud Cumberland prances, insidting the slain. 
And their hoof-beaten lx)soms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of 

war 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, oh (ilenullin I whose bride shall await. 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the 

gate. 
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 



WiH}). Albin ! to death and captivity led — 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



LOCHIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

WIZARD. 

Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be 

torn ! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the 

north % 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the 

blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 

heaven. 
crested Lochiel I the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to 

burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it 

stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 

brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan : 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their 

breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the 

rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; 



BORDER BALLAD. 



379 



When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud. 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array 



WIZARD. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would re- 
veal ; 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive 
king. 

Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my 
sight : 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the 
moors ; 

Cnlloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner f where f 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, for- 
lorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and 
torn? 

Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to 
beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 



LOCHIEL. 

- Down, soothless insulter ! 
tale ! 



I trust not the 



For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in 

their gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf -beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. 



Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 

With his back to the fleld, and his feet to the foe ! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of 

fame. 

Thomas Campbell. 



©orber Ballab. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 

Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border ! 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story ! — 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory ! 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are graz- 
ing; 
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding ; 
War-steeds are bounding ; 
Stand to your arms, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



pbrocl) of IDonuil ?IDliu. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew. 

Summon Clan-Conuil ! 
Come away, come away — 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array. 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 
From mountain so rocky ; 

The war-pipe and pennon 
Are at Inverlochy. 



380 



POEMS OF AJIBITIOX. 



Come every hill-plaid, and 
True heart that wears one ; 

Come every steel blade, and 
Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 
The flock without shelter ; 

Leave the corpse uninterred, 
The bride at the altar ; 

Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
Leave nets and barges : 

Come with your fighting gear, 



Broadswords 



and targes. 



Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded I 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster — 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master ! 

Fast they come, fast they come — 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Kneel for the onset I 

Sir Walter Scott. 



toac's iWc for Pinncc (Cliarlic. 

A WEE l)ird came to our ha' door ; 

He warbled sweet and clearlv ; 
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang 

Was " Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 
Oh I when I heard the Iwnny. bonny bird, 

The tears came drapping rarely ; 
I took my bonnet aff my head, 

For weel I io'ed Prince Charlie. 

Quoth I : •• 3Iy bird, my bonnie, lx)nnie bird, 

Is that a tale ye borrow ? 
Or is 't some words ye've learned by rote, 

Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ? " 



'• Oh ! no. no, no ! " the wee bird sang, 
" I've flown sin' morning early ; 

But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 
Oh I wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" On hills that are by right his ain 

He roams a lonely stranger ; 
On ilka hand he's pressed by want. 

On ilka side bv danger. 
Yestreen I met him in the glen. 

My heart near bursted fairly ; 
For sadly changed indeed was he — 

Oh I wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" Dark night came on ; the tempest howled 

Out owre the hills and valleys; 
And where was't that your prince lay down. 

Whose hame should be a palace ? 
He rowed him in a Highland plaid, 

Which covered him but sparely. 
And slept beneath a bush o' broom — 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 

But now the bird saw some red coats. 

And he shook his wings wi' anger : 
" Oh I this is no a land for me — 

ril tarry here nae langer." 
A while he hovered on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly ; 
But weel I iniiul the farewell strain, 

'Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! " 

William Glen. 



^.imc, ^amc, igamc I 

Hame. hame. hame! oh hame I fain would be! 
Oh hame. hanio, hame. to my ain countrie! 
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on 

the tree. 
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. 
Hame, hamt^, hame ! oh hame I fain would he ! 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's lieginning now to fa'; 
The Inmnic white rose, it is withering an' a' ; 
But we'll water it wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie, 
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie! 
Hame, hame, hame I oh hame I fain would he ! 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 



THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND, 381 


Oh there's nocht now frae ruin m\ countrie can 




save, 


iri)c BroabstDorbs of Scotlanb. 


But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 




That a" the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie 


Xow there's peace on the shore, now there's calm 


May rise again and fight for their ain coun- 


on the sea, 


trie. 


Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 


Eame, hame, ha??ie ! oh Tiame I fain would be ! 


free. 


Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 


Right descendants of W allace. Montrose, and Dun- 
dee. 

Oil, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 


The great now are gone wha attempted to save, 


The green grass is growing abune their grave ; 


And oil, the old Scottish broadswords f 


Yet the sun through the mist seems to promise to 




me. 


Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the 


" I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." 


brave — 


Hame, hame, hame 1 oh Jiame I fain uvuld be ! 


Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with 


Oh hame, hame, hame I to my ain countrie ! 


the slave. 




Whose Kbation comes slow while we honor his 


At.t.ax CuxxrsGHAir. 






grave. 




Oil, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 




And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


IHb ^in Ccu ntrie. 






Though he died not. like him. amid victory's roar. 


The sun rises bright in France, 


Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on 


And fair sets he ; 


the. shore, 


But he has tint the blythe blink he had 


Xot the less we remember the spirit of Moore. 


In my ain countrie. 


Oh, the broadswords of old ScotlaJid ! 


Oh gladness comes to many, 


And oil, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


But sorrow comes to me. 




As I look o'er the wide ocean 


Yea. a place with the fallen the living shall claim ; 


To my ain countrie. 


We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name. 




The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Gra- 


Oh it's nae my ain ruin 


ham. 


That saddens aye my e'e. 


All the broadswords of old Scotland I 


But the love I left in Galloway, 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


Wi' bonnie baimies three. 


" 


My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, 


Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of 


An' smiled my fair Marie : 


the Forth, 


I've left my heart behind me 


Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of 


In mv ain countrie. 


the north ; 




Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and 


The bud comes back to summer, 


their worth. 


And the blossom to the bee : 


All the broadswords of old Scotland ! 


But I'll win back — oh never. 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 


To mv ain countrie. 

• 




I'm leal to the high heaven, 


The highest in splendor, the humblest in place, 


"Which will be leal to me. 


Stand united in gloiy, as kindred in race, 


An there 111 meet ye a' sune 


For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. 


Frae my ain countrie. 


Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 


Allan CtrKxiXGHAii. 


And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 



382 



POEMS OF AJIBITIOy 



Then sacred to each and to all let it be. 

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 

free. 
Riffht descendants of Wallace. Montrose, and Dun- 



dee. 



Oh. the hroadsicords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish hroadsicords ! 

JOHX GiBSOX LCCKHABT. 



fontenan. 

Thrice at the huts of Fontenov the English col- 
umn failed. 

And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in 
vain assailed : • 

For town and slope were filled with fort and flank- 
ing battery, 

And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch 
auxiliary. 

As vainly through De Barri's wood the British 
soldiers burst. 

The French artillery drove them back diminished 
and dispersed. 

The bloody Duke of Cumberland l^eheld with anx- 
ious eye, 

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance 
to try. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenov, how fast his generals 
ride! 

And mustering came his chosen troops like clouds 
at eventide. 

• 

Six thousand English veterans in stately column 
tread : 

Their cannon blaae in front and flank. Lord Hay 
is at their head. 

Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they 
mount the hill. 

Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right 
onward still. 

Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy. as through a 
furnace-blast, 

Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bul- 
lets showering fast : 
"^nd on the open plain above they rose and kept 
their course, 

With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at 
hostile force. 



Past Fontenoy. past Fontenoy, while thinner grow 
their ranks. 

They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Hol- 
land's ocean-banks. 

More idly than the summer flies. French tirailleurs 
rush round ; 

As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons 
strew the ground : 

Bombshell and grape and round-shot tore, still on 
they marched and fired ; 

Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur re- 
tired. 

•'Push on my household cavalry," King Louis 
madly cried. 

To death they rush, but rude their shock, not un- 
avenged they died. 

On through the camp the column trod — King 
Louis turned his rein. 

•' Sot yet, my liege," Saxe interposed ; " the Irish 
troops remain." 

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had l^een a 
Waterloo, 

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, 
and true. 

*• Lord Clare,'' he said. " vou have rour wish : there 

are your Saxon foes I " 
The Marshal almost smQes to see how furiously he 

goes. 
How fierce the look these exUes wear, who're wont 

to be so gay ! 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 

hearts today : 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas 

writ could dry ; 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their 

women's parting cry ; 
Their priestho<xl hunted down like wolves, their 

country overthrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on 

him alone. 
On Fontenoy. on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud 

exiles were. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy. as, halting, he 

commands : 
" Fix bayonets — charge I '' Like mountain-storm 

rush on those fierv bands. 



THE RABP THAT OXCE THROUGH TAHAS HALLS. 



5S3 I 



T hin is tile EngKsh columii now. and faint their 

vollevs grow. 
Yet muscering all the strength they have, ther 

make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upjn the hill, to face that 

battle- wind I 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the 

men l^ehind I 
One ToUey crashes from their line, when through 

the surging smoke. 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the 

headlong Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy. on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce 

huzza! 
" Revenge ! remember Limerick I dash down the 

Sacsanagh 1 "' 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hun- 
ger's pang. 

Right up against the English line the Ldsh exiles 
sprang; 

Bright was their steel, 'tis "bloody now, their guns 
are filled with gore ; 

Through scattered ranks and severed files and 
trampled flags they tore. 

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, 
rallied, sc-attered. fled : 

The green hillside is matted close with dying and 
with dead. 

Across the plain and far away passed on that hide- 
ous wrack. 

While cavalier and f antassin dash in upon their track. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy. like eagles iu the sun. 

With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is 



fought and won I 



Thomas 0?bob>-i: Davis. 



50119 of tl)c Cornist) iHcn. 

A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true I 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when f 

And shall Trelawny die f 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason whv ! 



Out spake their captain, brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
** If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

Well set Trelawny free I 

" We'll cross the Tamar land to land, 

The Severn is no stay — 
With one and alL and hand-in-hand. 

And who shall bid us nay ? 

"And when we come to London walL — 

A pleasant sight to view. — 
Come forth I come forth, ye cowards all. 

To better men than you I 

*' Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die : 
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold. 

Will know the reason why!" 

EOBEBT SXEPHIE^ Ha^^v-kEB. 



5ong. 

As by the shore, at break of day, 
A vanquished chief expiring lay. 
Upon the sands, with broken sword. 

He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And there the last unfinished word 

He dying wrote, was •■ Liberty I '' 

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom f eU ; 
The words he wrote, ere evening came, 

Were covered by the sounding sea : 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for liberty I 

Thoxa£ Moobs. 



Z\\c ^ar;3 that o\uc throngh (para's i^alis. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Xow hangs as mute on Taras walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, * 

So glory's thriU is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Xow feel that pulse no more. 



384 



POEMS OF A3IBITI0X. 



No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their eountr}''s wishes blessed ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins. 



Peace to tlic Slumbcrcrs. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

They lie on the battle-plain, 
With no shroud to cover them ; 

The dew and the summer rain 
And all that sweep over them. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

Vain was their bravery ! 

The fallen oak lies where it lay 
Across the wintrj- river ; 

But brave hearts, once swept away, 
Are gone, alas I forever. 

Vain was their bravery ! 

Woe to the conqueror ! 

Our liml)s sliall lie as cold as theirs 
Of whom his sword bereft us. 

Ere we forget the deep arrears 

Of vengeance they have left us ! 

Woe to the conqueror! 

Thomas Moore. 



bctcran anb tlccrnit. 

He filled the crystal goblet 

With golden-beaded wine : 
" Come, comrades, now, I bid ye — 

' To the true love of mine ! ' 

" Her forehead's pure and holy, 

Her hair is tangled gold. 
Her heart to me so tender. 

To others' love is cold. 

" So drain your glasses empty 

And fill me another yet ; 
Two glasses at least for the dearest 

And sweetest girl, Lisette." 

Up rose a grizzled sergeant — 

" My true love I give thee, 
Three true loves blent in one love, 

A soldier's trinity. 

" Here's to the flag we follow, 
Here's to the land we serve. 

And here's to holy honor 
That doth the two preserve." 

Then rose they up around him, 
And raised their eyes above. 

And drank in solemn silence 
Unto the sergeant's love. 

Edward Wentworth Hazewbll. 



C5ob Sane tl)e Uing. 

God save our gracious king ! 
Long live our noble king I 

God save the king ! 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us — 

God save the king ! 

Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter his enemies. 

And make them fall ; 
Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us all ! 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWIS. 



J85 



Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour ; 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause, 
To sing with heart and voice — 

God save the king ! 



Anonymous. 



%\\an bun boclit. 

Oh ! the French are on the say, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
The French are on the say. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Oh ! the French are in the bay ; 
They'll be here without delay, 
And the Orange will decay, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Oh ! the French are in the bay, 
They'll he here hy break of day, 
And the Orange will decay, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And where will they have their camp' 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Where will they have their camp ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
On the Currach of Kildare ; 
The boys they will be there 
With their pikes in good repair, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
To the Currach of Kildare 
The boys they will repair. 
And Lord Edward tvill be there, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Then what will the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What will the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What should the yeomen do, 
But throw off the red and blue. 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht ? 
What should the yeomen do, 
But throw off the red and blu% 
And swear that they^ll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht 9 



27 



And what color will they wear % 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What color will they wear % 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What color should be seen, 
Where our fathers' homes have been, 
But our own immortal green ? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Wlxat color should be seen. 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 
But our own immortal green 9 
Says the Sha7i Van Vocht. 

And will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan V^an Vocht ; 
Will Ireland then be free ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes ! Ireland shall be free, 
From the centre to the sea ; 
Then hurrah for liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes ! Ireland shall be free. 
From the centre to the sea ; 
TJien hurrah for liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

Anonymous. 



^ott) @^I)^2 broitgl)t X\\t C^oob j^etus from 
(Client to ^\%. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he : 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 

'• Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate-bolts 

undrew, 
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through. 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 

pace — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing cur 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique 

right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 



386 



FOEJIS OF AJIBITIOy. 



'Twas a moonset at starting: but while we drew 

near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 

clear: 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see : 
At Diiffeld "twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mechein church-steeple we heard the 

half -chime — 
So Joris broke silence with •* Yet there is time I " 

At Aersohot up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ; 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear 

bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 

track : 
And one eye's black intelligence. — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me. his own master, askance : 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned : and cried Joris. " Stay 
spur I 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in 
her; 

We'll rememljer at Aix" — for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and stagger- 
ing knees. 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping. Joris and I. 
Past Looz and past Tongres. no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble 

like chaff : 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 
And " Gallop." gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight I " 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his 

roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 



And there was mv Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 

fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. 
And wit'n circles of red for his eye-sockets" rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my Jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse >vit'tiout 

peer — 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, 

bad or good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round. 
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the 

ground : 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of 

wine. 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news 

fiom Ghent. 

Robert Bbowsixg. 



(The l\ nig Ill's £ca|j. 

A LEGEXD OF ALTEXAIIR. 

So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine : 

And the water is spent and gone f 
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine : 

I never shall drink but this one. 

And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse. 
And lead him me round to the door: 

He must take such a leap to-night perforce, 
As horse never took before. 

I have fought my fight. I have lived my life, 

I have dnmk my share of wine : 
From Trier to Coin there was never a knight 

Led a merrier life than mine. 

1 have lived by the saddle for years twoscore ; 

And if 1 must die on tree. 
Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore. 

Is the properest timber for me. 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IX XE^Y ENGLAND. 






So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, 

How the Altenahr hawk can die : 
If thev smoke the old falcon out of his nest, 

He mast take to his wings and fly. 

He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, 
And he mounted his horse at the door ; 

And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, 
As man nerer drained before. 

He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight. 

And he leaped him out over the wall ; 
Out over the cliff, out into the night, 

Three hundred feet of fall. 

They found him next morning below in the glen, 
With never a bone in him whole — 

A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen, 
For such a bold rider's soul. 

Charles Ktngslet. 



Snbian Deatl)-50ng. 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the 

day, 
But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
Begin, you tormentors I your threats are in vain. 
For the son of Alknomook will never complain. 

Remember the arrows lie shot from his bow ; 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! 
Why so slow -? do you wait till I shrink from the 

pain? 
Xo ! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. 

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay. 
And the scalps which we bore from your nation 

away. 
Xow the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; 
But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone ; 

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 

Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from 
pain ; 

And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to com- 
plain. 

Anxk Hunter. 



Wc\z £anbing af tl}c pilgrim fatljcre 
in ^s'cra Q:nglanb. 

"Look now abroad — anotlier race has filled 

Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And to\^Tis shoot up. and fertile realms are tilled ; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." 

Brtaxt. 
The breaking waves dashed hio^h, 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
T\Tien a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild Xew England shore. 

Xot as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Xot with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Xot as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea : 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 



388 



POEMS OF AJIBITIOy. 



Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Hemans. 



Z\)c pilgrim -fatl)crs. 

The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore — 
Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride : 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 

Is seen, and then NYithdrawn. 

The jiilgrim exile — sainted name! 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea. 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the pilgrim, where is he? 

Tiie Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : 

When Summer is throned on high. 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed. 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie: 
The earliest rav of the golden dav 

On the hallowed spot is east; 
And the evening sun, as ho leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The pilgrim spirit has not fled: 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
An«l it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars by night : 



It watches the bed of the brave who have bled. 
And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 

Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 

John Pierpont. 



(Dn tl)c Prospect of planting GVrts anb 
Cearning in ^mcinca. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme. 
In distant lands now waits a better time. 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue. 

The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules. 

Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Xot such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest offspring is the iSstT 

George Berkeley. 



ijrimn 



SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONU- 
MENT, APRIL 19, lase. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Tlieir flag to Ajiril's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 



CARMEN BELLICOSrM. 



389 



The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a Yotive stone, 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Xature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ealph Waldo Emeksox. 



QIarmcn BcUicosxim. 

Ix their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old continentals, 

Yielding not. 
When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When the files 
Of the isles, 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the ban- 
ner of the rampant 
Unicorn, 
And grumraer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll 
of the drummer. 

Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all. 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green- 
sodded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun- 
powder, 

Cracking amain ! 



Xow like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoniers ; 
And the " villainous saltpetre " 
Eung a fierce, discordant metre 
Round their ears ; 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' 
clangor 

On our flanks. 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash- 
ioned fire 

Through the ranks I 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broad sword was swinging. 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the 
leaden 

Rifle -breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six- 
pounder. 

Hurling death ! 

Gut Humphrey McMasteb. 



Song of ilXarion's iHen. 

Our band is few, but true and tried. 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soklier trembles 

Wlien Marion's name is told. 
Oar fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree : 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea ; 
We know its walls of thorny vines. 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near ! 



390 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear ; 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain. 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 
And they who fly in terror, deem 

A mighty host behind. 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil ; 
We talk the battle over. 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodlands ring with laugh and shout 

As if a hunt were up. 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles. 

The scampering of their steeds. 
"Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain ; 
"Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away ! 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men thci^e are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs: 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our l:)and 

With kindliest welcoming. 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arras. 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven tlie Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 

William Ci'llen Bryant. 



(ri)c Star-spanglcb !3anncr. 

Oh I say, can you see by the dawn's early light 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the 

perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly 

streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in 

air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was 

still there. 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave ? 

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 

deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

reposes. 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half dis- 
closes ? 
Xow it catches the gleam of the morning's first 

beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 
'Tis the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's con- 
fusion 

A home and a country should leave us no 
more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution. 

Xo refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the 
grave ; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the 
brave. 



THE A3IERICAN FLAG. 



391 



Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's deso- 
lation ! 

Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
rescued land 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved 
us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is Just ; 

And this be our motto, " In God is our trust," 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the 

brave. 

Francis Scott Key. 



Whex Freedom from her mountain height 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night. 
And set the stars of glory there ; 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies. 

And striped its pure, celestial white 

With streakings of the morning light ; 

Then from his mansion in the sun 

She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free. 
To hover in the sulphur-smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar. 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high. 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 
And the long line comes gleaming on ; 



Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance, 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 

Then shall thy meteor-glances glow. 
And cowering foes shall sink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given ; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
For ever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us \ 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 

Joseph Hodman Drake. 



OD iHotlier of a illigljtn Bace. 

MOTHER of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 



392 



POEMS OF AMBITIOX. 



Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay. let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons ! 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide — 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the west ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes. 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
For earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head. 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 
Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 

fair young mother I on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
The til rouging years in glory rise. 

And, as they fleet, 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye. with every coming hour. 

Shall Itrighten, and thy form shall tower; 

And when thy sisters, elder bom. 

Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 

l^fforo thine eye 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

William Ccllen Bryant. 



0ur State. 

The south-land boasts its teeming cane. 
The prairied west its hea%'y grain. 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold ! 



Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone. 
Her onlv mines are ice and stone ! 

From autumn frost to April rain. 
Too long her winter woods complain ; 
From budding flower to falling leaf, 
Her summer time is all too brief. 

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands. 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands; 
And what her rugged soil denies 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the commonwealth 
Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health ; 
And more to her than gold or grain 
The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock. 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; 
And still maintains, with milder laws. 
And clearer light, the good old cause ! 

Xor heeds the sceptic's puny hands. 

While near her school the church-spire stands ; 

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

Wliile near her church-spire stands the school. 

John Gkeenleat Whittier. 



f^lontcrcn. 

We wore not many, we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day ; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



393 



Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on, still on our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
And braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave, 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many, we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 

Charles Fenno HorraiAX. 



@:iie Battlc-J^iclb. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave - 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Xow all is calm, and fresh, and still : 
Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill. 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 



No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry — 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year ; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

JSTor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again — 
The eternal years of Grod are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust. 
Like those who fell in battle here ! 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

William Ctjllest Bryant. 



@:i}e Battle Autumn of 1862. 

The flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
The charging trumpets blow ; 

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, 
No earthquake strives below. 



394 



POEMS OF AMBITIOJS. 



And, calm and patient, Xature keeps 

Her ancient promise well. 
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 

The battle's breath of hell. 

And still she walks in golden hours 

Through harvest-happy farms, 
And still she wears her fruits and flowers 

Like jewels on her arms. 

What mean the gladness of the plain, 

This joy of eve and morn. 
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 

And yellow locks of corn ? 

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 

And hearts with hate are hot ; 
But even-paced come round the years, 

And Nature changes not. 

She meets with smiles our bitter grief. 
With songs our groans of pain ; 

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
The war-fidld's crimson stain. 

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear 

Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm : 
Too near to God for doubt or fear, 

She shares the eternal calm. 

She knows the seed lies safe below 

The fires that blast and burn ; 
For all the tears of blood we sow 

She waits the rich return. 

She sees with clearer eye than ours 

The good of suffering bom, — 
The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 

And ripen like her corn. 

O, give to us in times like these. 

The vision of her eyes ; 
And make her fields and fruited trees 

Our golden jjrophecies ! 

0, give to us her finer ear ! 

Above this stormy din, 
We too would hear the bells of cheer 

Ring peace and freedom in ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



i^rcbcrickGbnrg. 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, 
And on the churchyard by the road, I know, 
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. 

'Twas such a night two weary summers fled ; 

The stars as now were waning overhead. 

Listen ! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow 
Where the swift currents of the river flow 

Past Fredericksburg ; far off the heavens are red 

With sudden conflagration : on yon height. 

Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their 
breath ; 

A signal-rocket pierces the dense night. 
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath ; 

Hark ! — the artillery massing on the right. 

Hark ! — the black squadrons wheeling down to 
death. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



" Corporal Green ! " the orderly cried. 
" Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear. 
From the lips of the soldier who stood near ; 

And " Here ! " was the word the next replied. 

" Cyrus Drew ! '" — then silence fell — 
This time no answer followed the call ; 
Only his rear man had seen him fall, 

Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 

Tliere they stood in the failing light. 
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
As plain to be read as open books. 

While slowly gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with 
blood, 
And down in the corn where the poppies 

grew. 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side 
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire, 

And their life-blood wont to color the tide. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 



395 



" Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

" Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, " Here ! " 
" Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. 
They were brothers, these two ; the sad wind 
sighed, 

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

" Ephraim Deane ! " — then a soldier spoke : 
" Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said ; 
" Where our ensign was shot 1 left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

" Close to the roadside his body lies ; 

I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 

He murmured his mother's name, 1 think, 
And death came with it, and closed his eyes." 

'Twas a victory, yes, but it cost us dear — 

For that company's roll, when called at night, 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight. 

Numbered but twenty that answered " Here ! " 

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd. 



Barbara iTrietcljie. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn. 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green- walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ; 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, — 

Over the mountains, winding down. 
Horse and foot into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 



Flapped in the morning wind ; the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down : 

In her attic-window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

" Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
" Fire ! "—out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 

" Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell / 
On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 



-- 1 



396 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of freedom and union, wave ! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



Qi\\t Black Ucgimcnt. 

MAY 27th, 1S63. 

Dark as the clouds of even, 
Ranked in the western heaven, 
Waiting the breath that lifts 
All the dead mass, and drifts 
Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land ; — 
So still and orderly, 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event, 
Stands the black regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; 
And the briglit bayonet. 
Bristling and firmly set, 
Flashed with a purpose grand. 
Long ere the sharp command 
Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come, 
Told them what work was sent 
For the black regiment. 

•' Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
"Thougii death and hell betide. 
Let tile whole nation see 
If we are fit to be 
Free in this land; or bound 
Down, like the whining hound — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our cold chains again ! " 
Oh I what a shout there went 
PVom the black regiment I 



" Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke ; 
Onward the bondmen broke ; 
Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
Vainly opposed their rush. 
Through the wild battle's crush. 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff, 
in the guns' mouths they laugh; 
Or at the slippery brands 
Leaping with open hands, 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course ; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crashing steel ; — 
All their eyes forward bent, 
Rushed the black regiment. 

" Freedom ! " their battle-cry — 
" Freedom I or leave to die I " 
Ah ! and they meant the word. 
Not as with us 'tis heard. 
Not a mere party shout ; 
They gave their spirits out. 
Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood ; 
Glad to strike one free blow, 
Whether for weal or woe ; 
Glad to breathe one free breath. 
Though on the lips of death ; 
Praying — alas ! in vain I — 
That they might fall again. 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty ! 
This was what " freedom " lent 
To the black regiment. 

Hundreds on hundreds fell ; 
But they are resting well ; 
Scourges and shackles strong 
Never shall do them wrong. 
Oh, to the living few. 
Soldiers, he just and true ' 
Plail them as comrades tried; 
Fight with them side by side; 
Never, in field or tent. 
Scorn the black regiment ! 

George Henry Boker. 



VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD. 



397 



bigil Strange 1 kept on X\\t inelb. 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night : 
When you. my son and my comrade, dropt at my 

side that day, 
One looli I but gave, which your dear eyes re- 

turn'd, with a look I shall never forget ; 
One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reached 

up as you lay on the ground ; 
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-con- 
tested battle ; 
Till late in the night relieved to the place at last 

again I made my way ; 
Found you in death so cold, dear comrade — found 

your body, son of responding kisses, (never 

again on earth responding ; ) 
Bared your face in the starlight — curious the 

scene — cool blew the moderate night-wind ; 
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around 

me the battle-field spreading ; 
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fra- 
grant silent night ; 
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh. — 

Long, long I gazed ; 
Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your 

side, leaning my chin in my hands ; 
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours 

with you, dearest comrade — not a tear, not a 

word : 
Vigil of silence, love, and death — vigil for you, 

my son and my soldier ; 
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones 

upward stole ; 
Vigil final for you, brave boy, (T could not save 

you, swift was your death, 
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living — 

I think we shall surely meet again ;) 
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just 

as the dawn appeared, 
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, enveloped well 

his form. 
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over 

head, and carefully under feet ; 
And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, 

my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave, I 

deposited : 
Ending my vigil strange with that — vigil of night 

and battle-field dim ; 



Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on 
earth responding ;) 

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain — vigil I never for- 
get, how as day brightened, 

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier 

well in his blanket, 

And buried him where he fell. 

Walt Whitman. 



% %\%\)i in Camp in tl)e IDan-break 
(Stag c^\i^ Dim. 

A SIGHT in camp in the day -break gray and dim, 

As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless. 

As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near 

by the hospital tent. 
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out 

there, untended lying. 
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish 

woollen blanket, 
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. 

Curious I halt, and silent stand ; 

Then with light fingers I from the face of the near- 
est, the first, just lift the blanket : 

Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with 
well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken about the 
eyes f 

Who are you, my dear comrade ? 

Then to the second I step. And who are you, my 

child and darling? 
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming*? 

Then to the third — a face nor child, nor old, very 
calm, as of beautiful yellow- white ivory ; 

Young man, I think I know you — I think this face 
of yours is the face of the Christ himself ; 

Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again 
he lies. Walt Whitman. 



®ur iTallen ^eroes. 

The angel of the nation's peace 

Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum ; 
We see the fruiting fields increase 

Where sound of war no more shall come. 



398 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



The swallow skims the Tennessee, 
Soft winds play o'er the Rapidan ; 

There only echo notes of glee, 

Where gleamed a mighty army's van ! 

Fair Chattanooga's wooded slope 
With summer airs is lightly stirred, 

And many a heart is warm with hope 
Where once the deep-mouthed gun w"as heard. 

The blue Potomac stainless rolls, 
And Mission Ridge is gemmed with fern ; 

On many a height sleep gallant souls. 
And still the blooming years return. 

Thank God ! unseen to outward eye, 
But felt in every freeman's breast. 

From graves where fallen comrades lie 
Ascends at Nature's wise behest, 

With springing grass and blossoms new, 

A prayer to bless the nation's life, 
To freedom's flower give brighter hue. 

And hide the awful stains of strife. 

0, Boys in Blue, we turn to you. 
The scarred and mangled who survive ; • 

Xo more we meet in grand review, 
But all the arts of freedom thrive. 

Still glows the jewel in its shrine. 
Won where the James now tranquil rolls ; 

Its wealth for all, the glory thine, 
memory of heroic souls ! 

George Bancroft Griffith. 



Z\)c Dluc a\\ti tlK (Pran. 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Wiionce the fleets of iron have fled, 
When- the blades of the grave-grass quiver. 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
Tnd^er the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Under the one. the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 



These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 
In the dusk of eternity meet : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 
Alike for the friend and the foe : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender. 
On the blossoms blooming for all : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed witli gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth. 
On forest and field of grain. 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done, 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won : 

Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment-day ; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No moi'e shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever 

When thev laurel the graves of our dead ! 





THE BIVOUAC 


OF THE DEAD. 399 




Under the sod and the dew, 


Who heard the thunder of the fray 




Waiting the judgment-day ; 


Break o'er the field beneath, 




-Love and tears for the Blue, 


Knew well the watchword of that day 




Tears and love for the Gray. 


Was victory or death. 




Fkaxcis Miles Fi^tch. 


Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain. 
And long the pitying sky has wept 




^Ije jBioDitac of tlie X^tah. 


Above its mouldered slain. 
The raven's scream or eagle's flight, 




The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 


Or shepherd's pensive lay, 




The soldier's last tattoo ! 


Alone now wake each solemn height 




No more on life's parade shall meet 


That frowned o'er that dark fray. 




That brave and fallen few. 






On Fame's eternal camping-ground 


Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 




Their silent tent3 are spread ; 


Ye must not slumber there, 




And Glory guards, with solemn round. 


Where stranger steps and tongues resound 




The bivouac of the dead. 


Along the heedless air ; 
Tour own proud land's heroic soil 




Xo rumor of the foe's advance 


Shall be your fitter grave : 




Xow swells upon the wind : 


She claims from war its richest spoil. 




Xo troubled thought at midnight haunts 


The ashes of her brave. 




Of loved ones left behind : 






Xo vision of the morrow's strife 


Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 




The warrior's dream alarms, 


Far from the gory field, 




Xo braying horn or screaming fife 


Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 




At dawn shall call to arms. 


On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 




Their shivered swords are red with rust, 


Smiles sadly on them here, 




Their plumed heads are bowed ; 


And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 




Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 


The hero's sepulchre. 




Is now their martial shroud ; 






And plenteous funeral tears have washed 


Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 




The red stains from each brow; 


Dear as the blood ye gave, 




And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 


Xo impious footstep here shall tread 




Are free from anguish now. 


The herbage of your grave. 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 




The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 


While Fame her record keeps, 




The bugle's stirring blast, 


Or Honor points the hallowed spot 




The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 


Where Valor proudly sleeps. 




The din and shout, are passed ; 






Xor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 


Yon marble mhistrel's voiceless stone 




Shall thrill with fierce delight 


In deathless song shall tell, 




Those breasts that nevermore may feel 


When many a vanished year hath flown. 




The rapture of the fight. 


The story how ye fell ; 
Xor wreck, nor change, nor winter's flight. 




Like the fierce Xorthern hurricane 


Xor Time's remorseless doom. 




That sweeps his great plateau, 


Can dim one ray of holy light 




Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 


That gilds your glorious tomb. 




Comes down the serried foe. 


Theodoke O'Haea. 



400 



POEMS OF AMBITIOX. 



Sncibcnt of tljc fxc\u\\ Camp. 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow, 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused. " My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battei*y-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept \i\^ lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon I 
The marshal "s in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where 1, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 

When her liruised eaglet breathes ; 
" You 're wounded I " " Nay." his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I'm killed, sire I " And, his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning. 



i^olicnlinbcn. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills Avith thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, 
And bloodier yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



QVt3c Jm^jcnUrix ! 

Set in this stormy northern sea, 

Queen of these restless fields of tide, 

England I what shall men say of thee, 
Before whose feet the worlds divide I 



AVE IMPERATRIX ! 



401 



2S 



The earth, a brittle globe of glass, 

Lies in the hollow of thy hand, 
And through its heart of crystal pass, 

Like shadows through a twilight land. 

The spears of crimson-suited war, 

The long white-crested waves of fight, 

And all the deadly fires which are 
The torches of the lords of night. 

The yellow leopards, strained and lean, 
The treacherous Russian knows so well, 

With gaping blackened jaws are seen 
To leap through hail of screaming shell. 

The strong sea-lion of England's wars 
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea. 

To battle with the storm that mars 
The star of England's chivalry. 

The brazen-throated clarion blows 

Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 
And the high steeps of Indian snows 

Shake to the tread of armed men. 

And many an Afghan chief, who lies 
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, 

Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 
When on the mountain-side he sees 

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 

To tell how he hath heard afar 
The measured roll of English drums 

Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 

For southern wind and east wind meet 

Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, 

England with bare and bloody feet 
Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 

O lonely Himalayan height. 

Gray pillar of the Indian sky, 
Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight 

Our winged dogs of victory ? 

The almond-groves of Samarcand, 

Bokhara, where red lilies blow, 
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand 

The grave white-turbaned merchants go ; 



And on from thence to Ispahan, 

The gilded garden of the sun. 
Whence the long dusty caravan 

Brings cedar and vermilion ; 

And that dread city of Cabul, 

Set at the mountain's scarped feet, 

Whose marble tanks are ever full 
With water for the noonday heat; 

Where through the narrow straight bazaar 

A little maid Circassian 
Is led, a present from the Czar, 

Unto some old and bearded Khan ; 

Here have our wild war-eagles floAvn, 
And flapped wide wings in fiery flight ; 

But the sad dove, that sits alone 
In England — she hath no delight. 

In vain the laughing girl will lean 
To greet her love with love-lit eyes: 

Down in some treacherous black ravine. 
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 

And many a moon and sun will see 
The lingering wistful children wait 

To climb upon their father's knee ; 
And in each house made desolate, 

Pale women who have lost their lord 
Will kiss the relics of the slain, 

Some tarnished epaulette, some sword. 
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. 

For not in quiet English fields 
Are these, our brothers, laid to rest, 

Where we might deck their broken shields 
With all the flowers the dead loved best. 

For some are by the Delhi walls, 
And many in the Afghan land. 

And many where the Ganges falls 
Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 

And some in Russian waters lie, 
And others in the seas which are 

The portals to the East, or by 

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 



402 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



wandering graves ! O restless sleep ! 

silence of the sunless day ! 
still ravine ! O stormy deep ! 

Give up your prey ! Give up your prey ! 

And thou whose wounds are never healed. 

Whose weary race is never won, 
Cromwell's England ! must thou yield 

For ever}' inch of ground a son ? 

Go ! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, 
Change thy glad song to song of pain ; 

Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 
And will not yield them back again. 

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 
Possess the flower of English land — 

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, 
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 

What profit now that we have bound 

The whole round world with nets of gold, 

If hidden in our heart is found 
The care that groweth never old ? 

What profit that our galleys ride, 

Pine-forest-like, on every main ? 
Ruin and wreck are at our side, 

Grim warders of the house of pain. 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet i 

Where is our English chivalry ? 
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet. 

And sobbing waves then- threnody. 

loved ones lying far away. 

What word of love can dead lips send ? 
wasted dust ! senseless clav ! 

Is this the end ? Is this the end ? 

Peace, peace ! we wrong the noble dead 

To vex their solemn slumber so : 
Though childless and with thorn-crowned head, 

Up the steep road must England go ; 

Yet when this fien>' web is spun, 
Her watchmen shall descr}' from far 

The young Republic like a sun 
Hise from these crimson seas of war. 

Oscar Wilde. 



®l)c Cl)argc of tlic Ciglit Brigabc ot 
13 a la k law a. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Into the valley of death 

Rode the six hundred ; 
For up came an order which 

Some one had blundered. 
*' Forward, the light brigade ! 
Take the guns ! " Nolan said : 
Into the valley of death. 

Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward the light brigade ! " 
No man was there dismayed — 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die — 
Into the valley of death. 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon 'n\ front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of death. 
Into the mouth of hell. 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed all at once in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the batter\' smoke. 
With many a desperate stroke 
The Russian line they broke ; 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 




THK BATTLE OP TEE BALTIC. 



imrTOBut t APHJiTcar & c* 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND, 



403 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
Those that had fought so well 
Came from the jaws of death. 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade f 
Oh the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made I 
Honor the light brigade, 

Noble six hundred I 

Alfred Tenntsok. 



^e iJlatiners of ^nglanb. 

Ye mariners of England, 

That guard our native seas. 
Whose flag has brared, a thousand years. 

The battle and the breeze, 
Your glorious standard launch again, 

To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep 

While the stormy winds do blow — 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave. 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep 

While the stormy winds do blow — 
While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

Xo towers along the steep ; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, 

Her home is on the deep. 



With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 
As they roar on the shore 

When the stormy winds do blow — 
When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn. 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow — 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Casipbell. 



Battle of l\)t Baltic. 

Of Nelson and the north 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line — 
It was ten of April morn by the chime. 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 
" Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried ; when each giin 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 



404 



POEJIS OF AMBITION. 



Again I again ! again I 

And the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 
Their shots along the deep slowly boom — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail, 

Or in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then. 
As he hailed them o'er the wave : 

" Ye are l)rothers I ye are men I 
And we conquer but to save; 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
With the crews, at England's feet. 
And make submission meet 

To our king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief. 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 
As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

"While the sun looked smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight. 

Where the fires of fijneral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaxe. 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Lot us think of them that sleep 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so tnie, 
Oil the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant good Kiou — 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls. 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



^n OMb--fasliioncb Gca-£igl)t. 

Would you hear of an old-fashioned sea-fight ? 
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon 

and stars ? 
List to the story as my grandmother's father, the 

sailor, told it to me. 

Our foe was no skulk in his. ship, I tell you, (said 
he;) 

His was the surly English pluck, and there is no 
tougher or truer, and never was, and never 
will be ; 

Along the lowered eve he came, horribly rak- 
ing us. 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the can- 
non touched ; 
My captain lashed fast with his own hands. 

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under 
the water ; 

On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst 
at the first fire, killing all around, and blow- 
ing up overhead. 

Fighting at sundown, fighting at dark : 
Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up. our 
leaks on the gain, and five feet of water re- 
ported : 
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined 
in the after-hold, to give them a chance for 
themselves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt 

by the sentinels. 
They see so many strange faces, they do not know 

whom to trust. 

Our frigate takes fire ; 
The other jisks if we demand quarter, 
If our colors are struck, and the fighting is 
done. 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my 

little captain: 
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have 

just begun our part of the fighting. 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 



405 



Only three guns are in use ; 

One is directed by the captain himself against the 

enemy's main-mast ; 
Two, well served with grape and canister, silence 

his musketry and clear his decks. 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, 

especially the main-top ; 
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. 

Not a moment's cease ; 

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats 
toward the powder-magazine. 

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is gener- 
ally thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain ; 

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor 
low ; 

His eyes give more light to us than our battle- 
lanterns. 

Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the 
moon, they surrender to us. 

Stretched and still lies the midnight ; 

Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the 
darkness ; 

Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — prepara- 
tions to pass to the one we have conquered ; 

The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving 
his orders through a countenance white as a 
sheet ; 

Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the 
cabin ; 

The dead face of an old salt with long white hair 
and carefully curled whiskers ; 

The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering 
aloft and below ; 

The husky voices of the two or three officers yet 
fit for duty ; 

Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by them- 
selves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and 
spars, 

Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of 
the soothe of waves. 

Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, 
strong scent, 



Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass, 

and charge to survivors. 
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth 

of his saw, 
Wheeze, chuck, swash of falling blood, short wild 

scream, and long, dull, tapering groan ; 
These so — these irretrievable. 

Walt Whitjian. 



AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

Ah, yes, the fight ! Well, messmates, well, 
I served on board that ninety-eight ; 

Yet what I saw I loathe to tell. 

To-night, be sure a crushing weight 

Upon my sleeping breast, a hell 
Of dread will sit. At any rate. 

Though land-locked here, a watch I'll keep — 

Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep ? 

That ninety-eight I sailed on board ; 

Along the Frenchman's coast we flew; 
Right aft the rising tempest roared; 

A noble first-rate hove in view ; 
And soon high in the gale there soared 

Her streamed-out bunting — red, white, blue ! 
We cleared for fight, and landward bore. 
To get between the chase and shore. 

Masters, I cannot spin a yarn 
Twice laid with words of silken stuff. 

A fact's a fact ; and ye may larn 

The rights o' this, though wild and rough 

My Avords may loom. 'Tis your consarn. 
Not mine, to understand. Enough ! 

We neared the Frenchman where he lay, 

And as we neared, he blazed away. 

We tacked, hove to ; we filled, we wore ; 

Did all that seamanship could do 
To rake him aft, or by the fore : 

Now rounded off, and now broached to : 
And now our starboard broadside bore, 

And showers of iron through and through 
His vast hull hissed ; our larboard then 
Swept from his three-fold decks his men. 



406 



P0E3IS OF A3IBIT10N. 



A.s we, like a huge serpent, toiled, 
And wound about, through that wild sea, 

The Frenchman each manoeuvre foiled — 
'Vantage to neither there could be. 

Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, 
We both resolved right manfully 

To fight it side by side ; — began 

Then the fierce strife of man to man. 

Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain 
Rmgs out her wild, delirious scream ! 

Redoubling thunders shake the main ; 
Loud crashing, falls the shot-rent beam. 

The timbers with the broadsides strain ; 
The slippery decks send up a steam 

From hot and living blood, and high 

And shrill is heard the death-pang cry. 

The shredded limb, the splintered bone, 
Th' unstiffened corpse, now block the way ! 

Who now can hear the dying groan? 
The trumpet of the judgment-day, 

Had it pealed forth its mighty tone, 

We should not then have heard, — to say 

Would be rank sin ; but this I tell, 

That could alone our madness quell. 

Upon the forecastle 1 fought 

As captain of the for'ad gun. 
A scattering shot the carriage caught ! 

What mother then iiad known her son 
Of those who stood around? — distraught, 

And smeared with gore, about they run, 
Then fall, and writhe, and howling die ! 
But one escaped — that one was I ! 

Xiglit darkened round, and the storm j>ealed, 

To windward of us lay the foe. 
As he to leeward over keeled, 

He could not figlit his guns below ; 
So just was going to strike — when reeled 

Our vessel, as if some vast ])low 
From an almighty hand had rent 
The huge ship from her element. 

Then howled the thunder. Tumult then 
Had stunned herself to silence. Round 

Were scattered light ning-l)lasted men I 
Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned. 



Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again 
The bolt burst on us, and we found 
Our masts all gone, our decks all riven : 
Man's war mocks faintly that of heaven ! 

Just then — nay, messmates, laugh not now - 
As I, amazed, one minute stood 

Amidst that rout ; I know not how — 
'Twas silence all — the raving flood. 

The guns that pealed from stem to bow. 
And God's own thunder — nothing could 

I then of all that tumult hear, 

Or see aught of that scene of fear. 

My aged mother at her door 

Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel ; 

The cottage, orchard, and the moor — 
1 saw them plainly all. FU kneel, 

And swear I saw them ! Oh, they wore 
A look all peace. Could I but feel 

Again that bliss that then 1 felt. 

That made my heart, like childhood's, melt ! 

The blessed tear was on my cheek, 
She smiled with that old smile I know : 

" Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," 
Was on my quivering lips — when lo! 

All vanished, and a dark, red streak 
Glared wild and vivid from the foe, 

That flashed upon the blood-stained water — 

For fore and aft the flames had caught her. 

She struck and hailed us. On us fast 
All burning, helplessly, she came — 

Near, and more near; and not a mast 
Had we to help us from that flame. 

'Twas then the bravest stood aghast — 
'Twas then the wicked, on the name 

(With danger and with guilt api)alled,) 

Of God, too long neglected, called. 

Th' eddying flames witli ravening tongue 
Now on our ship's dark l)ulwarks dash — 

We almost touched — when ocean rung 
Down to its depths with one loud crash I 

In heaven's toj) vault one instant hung 
The vast, intense, and blinding flash I 

Then all was darkness, stillness, dread — 

The wave moaned o'er the valiant dead. 



YJE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 



407 



She's gone ! blown up ! that gallant foe ! 

And though she left us in a plight, 
We floated still ; long were, I know. 

And hard, the labors of that night 
To clear the wreck. At length in tow 

A frigate took us, when 'twas light ; 
And soon an English port we gained — 
A hulk all battered and blood-stained. 

So many slain — so many drowned ! 

1 like not of that fight to tell. 
Come, let the cheerful grog go round ! 

Messmates, I've done. A spell, ho, spell — 
Though a pressed man, I'll still be found 

To do a seaman's duty well, 
I wish our brother landsmen knew 
One half we jolly tars go through. 

Anonymous, 



Se Gentlemen of ^ttiglanb. 

Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease. 
Ah ! little do you think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

All you that will be seamen. 

Must bear a valiant heart, 
For when you come upon the seas, 

You must not think to start ; 
Nor once to be faint-hearted. 

In hail, rain, blow, or snow. 
Nor to think for to shrink 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

The bitter storms and tempests 

Poor seamen do endure, 
Both day and night, with many a fright. 

We seldom rest secure. 
Our sleep it is disturbed 

With visions strange to know. 
And with dreams, on the streams. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 



In claps of roaring thunder. 

Which darkness doth enforce, 
We often find our ship to stray 

Beyond our wonted course ; 
Which causeth great distractions. 

And sinks our hearts full low ; 
'Tis in vain to complain, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Sometimes in Neptune's bosom 

Our ship is tossed in waves. 
And every man expecting 

The sea to be their graves ; 
Then up aloft she mounteth, 

And down again so low ; 
'Tis with waves — ! with waves. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Then down again we fall to prayer. 

With all our might and thought ; 
When refuge all doth fail us, 

'Tis that must bear us out ; 
To Grod we call for succor. 

For he it is, we know. 
That must aid us, and save us, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

The lawyer and the usurer, 

That sit in gowns of fur. 
In closets warm can take no harm, — 

Abroad they need not stir ; 
When winter fierce with cold doth pierce, 

And beats with hail and snow, 
We are sure to endure, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

We bring home costly merchandise, 

And jewels of great price. 
To serve our English gallantry, 

With many a rare device ; 
To please the English gallantry. 

Our pains we freely show. 
For we toil, and we moil, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

We sometimes sail to the Indies 

To fetch home spices rare ; 
Sometimes again to France and Spain, 

For wines beyond compare : 



408 



POEMS OF AJIBITIO^\ 



Whilst gallants are carousing, 

In taverns on a row, 
Then we sweep o'er the deep 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

When tempests are blown over. 

And greatest fears are past, 
In weather fair, and temperate air, 

We straight lie down to rest ; 
But when the billows tumbje, 

And waves do furious grow, 
Then we rouse, up we rouse. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us, 

When England is at wars, 
With any foreign nations, 

We fear not wounds nor scars : 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valor for to know, 
Whilst they reel in the keel. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

We are no cowardly shrinkers. 

But true Englishmen bred ; 
We'll play our parts like valiant hearts, 

And never fly for dread : 
We'll ply our business nimbly. 

Where'er we come or go. 
With our mates to the Straits, 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners. 

And never be dismayed. — 
Whilst we have bold adventurers. 

We ne'er shall want a trade ; 
Our merchants will employ us 

To fetch them wealth, I know; 
Then be bold, work for gold. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

When we return in safety, 

Wiih wages for our pains, 
The tapsier and the vintner 

Will help to share our gains ; 
We'll call for liquor roundly. 

And pay before we go; 
Tiien we'll roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Mauttn Parker. 



Casablanca. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but him had fled : 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done ? " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father I " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
x^.nd but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breatli, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My father! must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest tiling that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemaxs. 



HERVE RIEL. 



409 



§ert)e Hiel. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 

ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French — woe to 

France ! 
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through 

the blue. 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of 

sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the 

Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor 
in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great 
ship, Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the place, 
" Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick; 

or, quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will ! " 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and 
leaped on board ; 
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like 
these to pass ? " laughed they : 
Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored. 
Shall the ' Formidable,' here, with her twelve-and- 
eighty guns. 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single 
narrow way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of 
twenty tons, 
And \vith flow at full beside ? 
Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring f Rather say, 
While rock stands, or water runs. 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

Then was called a council straight : 

Brief and bitter the debate. 

" Here 's the English at our heels : would you have 

them take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

and bow : 



For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate ! " 
" Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard : 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, 
amid all these, — 
A captain? a lieutenant"? a mate, — flrst, second, 
third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tour- 
ville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot, he, — Herve Riel, the 
Croisickese. 

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" 
cried Herve Riel. 
" Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cow- 
ards, fools, or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals ? — me, who took 

the soundings, tell 
On my flngers every bank, every shallow, every 
swell, 
'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the riv- 
er disembogues ? 
Are you bought for English gold ? Is it love the 
lying 's for f 
Morn and eve, night and day. 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Soli- 
dor. 
Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were 
worse than flfty Hogues ! 
Sirs, then know I speak the truth ! Sirs, be- 
lieve me, there 's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line. 
Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear. 
Make the others follow mine. 
And 1 lead them, most and least, by a passage 1 
know well. 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound ; 



410 



POEMS OF AMBITION. 



And if one ship misbehave, — 

Keel so much as grate the ground, — 
Why, I've nothing but my life ; here 's my head ! " 
cries Herve Riel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

'• Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squad- 
ron ! " cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is admiral, in brief. 
Still the north wind, by God's grace. 
See the noble fellow's face. 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the 
wide sea's profound ! 
See, safe through shoal and rock, 
How they follow in a flock ; 
Not a ship that misbeliaves, not a keel that grates 
the ground. 
Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past ! 
All are harbored to the last ! 
And, just as Herve Riel hollas " Anchor ! " sure as 

fate. 
Up the English come, — too late ! 

So the storm subsides to calm ; 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve ; 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
'•Just our rupture to enhance. 

Let the English rake the bay. 
Gnash their teeth, and glare askance 
As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee 1 " 
J low hope succeeds despair on each captain's coun- 
tenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is paradise for hell ! 
Lot France, let France's king. 
Thank the man that did the thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 

" Horvr liicl ! " 
As he stepped in front once more ; 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eves. — 
Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, "My friend, 
I must speak out at the end. 

Though I find the speaking hard ; 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the king his ships ; 

You must name your own reward. 
Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's 
not Damfreville." 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke. 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : — 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty 's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is 
it but a run i — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may ; 

Since the others go ashore, — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the 
Belle Aurore ! " 

That he asked, and that he got, — nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost ; 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it be- 
fell : 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 
All that PVance saved from the fight whence 
F]ngland bore the l)oll. 
Go to Paris ; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ; 

You shall look long enough ere you come to 
Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the S(|uadron, honor France, love thy wife 
the Belle Aurore : 

Robert Brownino. 



SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 



411 



0ong of Vc\z ^xttW ^ozi. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace. 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' Islands of the Blest. 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea : 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they? and where art thou. 
My country f On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now. 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long di^dne, 

Degenerate into hands like mine f 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as 1 sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 



Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylee ! 

What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone I 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one f 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates, 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ! 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however bread. 



412 POEMS OF 


AMBITION. 


Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 


As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 


Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 


And heard, with voice as trumpet loud. 


I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 


Bozzaris cheer his band : 


But gazing on each glowing maid, 


" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 


My own the burning tear-drop laves, 


Strike — for your altars and your fires; 


To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 


Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 


• 


God — and your native land I " 


Place me on Suniura's marbled steep, 




Where nothing, save the waves and I, 


They fought — like brave men, long and well; 


May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 


They piled that ground with Moslem slain; 


There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 


They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 


A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 


Bleeding at every vein. 


Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 


His few surviving comrades saw 


Lord Byron. 


His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 




And the red field was won ; 




Then saw in death his eyelids close 


iUarco Co?;aris. 


Calmly, as to a night's repose. 
Like flowers at set of sun. 


At midnight, in his guarded tent. 




The Turk was dreaming of the hour 


Come to the bridal chamber, death ; 


Wlien Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 


Come to the mother's when she feels, 


Should tremble at his power. 


For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 


In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 


Come when the blessed seals 


The trophies of a conqueror ; 


That close the pestilence are broke. 


In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 


And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 


Then wore his monarch's signet-ring — 


Come in consumption's ghastly form, 


Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 


The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; 


As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 


Come when the heart beats high and warm, 


As Eden's garden bird. 


With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; 




And thou art terrible— the tear. 


At midnight, in the forest shades. 


The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 


Bozzaris ranged his Suliote V)and — 


And all we know, or dream, or fear 


True iis the steel of their tried blades, 


Of agony, are thine. 


Heroes in heart and hand. 




There had the Persian's thousands stood. 


But to the hero, when his sword 


There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 


Has won the battle for the free. 


Oil old Plata^a's day ; 


Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 


And now there breathed that haunted air 


And in its hollow tones are heard 


The sons of sires who conquered there, 


The thanks of millions yet to be. 


With arms to strike, and soul to dare, 


Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 


As quick, as far, as they. 


Come, with lier laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 




Come in her crowning hour — and then 


An hour passed on — the Turk awoke: 


Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 


That bright dream was his last ; 


To him is W(.'lc(>me as the sight 


He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 


Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 


•• To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek I " 


Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 


He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 


Of brother in a fon-ign land; 


And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 


Thy summons welcome as the cry 


And death-shots falling thick and fast 


That told the Indian isles were nigh 



THE 3IE3WRY OF THE DEAD. 



413 



To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,. 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris I with the storied brare 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time^ 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave^ 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Xor bade the dark hearse wave its plume. 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birth-day bells ; 
Of thee her babes" first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys — 
And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and fame^s — 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not bom to die. 

Fitz-Gkeen:e Halleck, 



®l)c iHcmoro oi i\\t Dead. 

Who fears to speak of Xinety-eight ? 

Who blushes at the name ? 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He 's all a knave, or half a slave, 

Who slights his country thus ; 



But a true man, like you, man, 
Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave, 

The faithful and the few — 
Som« lie far off" beyond the wave — 

Some sleep in Ireland, too; 
All, all are gone — but still lives on 

The fame of those who died — 
All true men, like you. men, 

Remember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary- hearts have laid. 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
In true men, like you. men, 

Their spirit 's still at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 
Of true men, like you. men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas! that might can vanquish right — 

They fell and passed away ; 
But true men. like you, men. 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here 's their memory — may it be 

For us a guiding light. 
To cheer our strife for liberty, 

And teach us to unite. 
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 

Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
And true men, be you, men, 

Like those of Ninety-eight ! 

John Kells Ingram. 



414 



POEMS OF AMBITIOX. 



Z\)t UcUcf of Cncknom. 

Oh, that last day in Liicknow fort ! 

We knew that it was the last ; 
That the enemy's mines crept surely in, 

And the end was cominsr fast. 



To yield to that foe meant worse than death ; 

And the men and Ave all worked on ; 
It was one day more of smoke and roar, 

And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing, 
Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 

And 1 took her head on my knee ; 
" When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," 
she said, 

" Oh ! then please wauken me," 

She slept like a child on her fathers floor, 

In the flecking of woodbine-shade. 
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door. 

And the mother's wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, 

And hopeless waiting for death ; 
And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child. 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

1 sank to sleep ; and I had my dream 

Of an p]nglish village-lane, 
And wall and garden ; but one wild scream 

Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening 

Till a sudden gladness broke 
All over her face; and she caught my hand 

And drew me near and spoke : 

" The nielanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 

The slogan far awa ? 
The McGregor's ? Oh ! I ken it weel ; 

It's the grandest o' them a' ! 



" God bless thae bonny Hielanders ! 

We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; 
And fell on her knees ; and thanks to God 

Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 

Along the battery-line her cry 

Had fallen among the men, 
And they started back ; — they were there to die ; 

But was life so near them, then i 

They listened for life : the rattling fire 

Far off, and the far-oil roar, 
Were all ; and the colonel shook his head. 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

Then Jessie said, " That slogan 's done ; 

But can ye hear them noo, 
The Campbells are comin ? It 's no a dream ; 

Our succors hae broken through I " 

We heard the roar and the rattle afar. 

But the pipes we could not hear ; 
So the men plied their work of hopeless war. 

And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it made its way, — 

A thrilling, ceaseless sound : 
It was no noise from the strife afar. 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipers of the Highlanders! 

And now they played Auld Lang Syne. 
It came to our men like the voice of God, 

And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept, and shook one another's hands. 
And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 

And every one knelt down where he stood. 
And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy day. when we welcomed them. 

Our nu'u put Jessie first ; 
And the general gave her his hand, and cheers 

Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 

And the pipers' riV)V)ons and tartan streamed, 
Marching round and ro\md our line ; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, 
As the pipes played Anld Lang Syne, 

Robert Traill Spexce Lowbll. 



THE OLD POLITICIAN. 



415 



®t)e prioate of tl)c Buffs. 

Last night, among his fellow roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place. 
Ambassador from Britain's crown, 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord or axe or fiarae. 
He only knows that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed. 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed. 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke above his father's door 

In gray soft eddyings hung ; 
Must he then watch it rise no more. 

Doomed by himself so young ? 

Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel 

He put the vision by ; 
Let dusky Indians v/hine and kneel, 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent. 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed. 

Vain those all-shattering guns, 
Unless proud England keep untamed 

The strong heart of her sons ; 
So let his name through Europe ring, — 

A man of mean estate. 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king. 

Because his soul was great. 

Sir Frakcis Hastings Doyle. 



®l]e (251b politician. 

Now that Tom Dunstan 's cold, 

Our shop is duller; 
Scarce a story is told ! 
And our chat has lost the old 

Red-republican color ! 
Though he was sickly and thin. 

He gladdened us with his face — 
How, warming at rich man's sin, 
With bang of the fist, and chin 

Thrust out, he argued the case ! 
He prophesied folk should be free, 

And the money-bags be bled — 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
" Cotirage, boys ! wait and see t 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

All day we sat in the heat. 

Like spiders spinning. 
Stitching full fine and fleet. 
While the old Jew on his seat 

Sat greasily grinning : 
And there Tom said his say, 

And prophesied Tyranny's death. 
And the tallow burnt all day, 
And we stitched and stitched away 

In the thick smoke of our breath, 
Wearily, wearily, 

With hearts as heavy as lead — 
But " Patience, she 's coming ! " said he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see 1 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 

And at night, when we took here 

The pause allowed to us, 
The paper came with the beer. 
And Tom read, sharp and clear, 

The news out loud to us ; 
And then, in his witty way. 

He threw the jest about — 
The cutting things he 'd say 
Of the wealthy and gay ! 

How he turned them inside out ! 
And it made our breath more free 

To hearken to what he said — 
" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " says he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see I 

Freedom 's ahead ! " 



416 POEMS OF 


AMBITIOX. 


But ^rim Jack Hart, with a sneer, 


Scarce a story is told ! 


Would mutter, " Master ! 


Our talk has lost the old 


If Freedom means to appear, 


Red-republican color. 


1 think she might step here 


But we see a figure gray, 


A little faster ? " 


And we hear a voice of death. 


Then it was fine to see Tom flame, 


And the tallow burns all day, 


And argue and prove and preach, 


And we stitch and stitch away, 


Till Jack was silent for shame. 


In the thick smoke of our breath ; 


Or a fit of coughing came 


Ay. here in the dark sit we. 


0' sudden to spoil Tom's speech. 


While wearily, wearily, 


Ah ! Tom had the eyes to see, 


We hear him call from the dead — 


When Tyranny should be sped ; 


" She 's coming, she 's coming ! " said be ; 


" She 's coming, she "s coming ! '' said he ; 


" Freedom 's ahead ! " 


" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 




Freedom 's ahead ! " 


How long. Lord, how long 




Doth thy handmaid linger ? 


But Tom was little and weak, 


She who shall right the wrong! 


The hard hours shook him ; 


Make the oppressed strong? — 


Hollower grew his cheek, 


Svreet morrow, bring her ! 


And when he began to speak 


Hasten her over the sea. 


The coughing took him. 


Lord, ere hope be fled — 


Ere long the cheery sound 


Bring her to men and to me I 


Of his chat among us ceased, 


slave, pray still on thy knee — 


And we made a purse all round, 


" Freedom 's ahead 1 '' 


That he might not starve, at least ; 


Robert Buchanak. 


His pain was sorry to see. 




Yet there, on his poor sick-bed, 




'* She 's coming, in spite of me ! 
Courage, and wait I " cried he, 


(Scorgc Nibbcr. 


" Freedom 's ahead ! " 


Mex have done brave deeds, 




And bards have sung them well ; 


A little before he died. 


I of good George Nidiver 


To see his passion ! 


Now the tale will tell. 


" Bring me a paper ! " he cried, 




And then to studv it tried 


In California mountains 


In his old sharp fashion : 


A hunter bold was he ; 


And with eyeballs glittering 


Keen his eye and sure his aim 


His look on me he bent. 


As any you should see. 


And said that savage tiling 




Of the lords of the Parliament. 


A little Indian boy 


Then, darkening, smiling on me. 


Followed him everv^where. 


" What matter if one be dead ? 


Eager to share the hunter's joy, 


She 's coming, at least ! " said he ; 


The hunter's meal to share. 


" Courage, boys I wait and see ! 




Freedom 's ahead ! " 


And when the bird or doer 




Fell by the hunter's skill, 


Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold, 


The boy was always near 


The shop feels duller ; 


To help with right good-will. 



SONNETS. 



417 



One day as through the cleft 
Between two mountains steep, 

Shut in both right and left, 
Their questing way they keep. 

They see two grizzly bears, 
With hunger fierce and fell, 

Rush at them unawares 

Right down the narrow dell. 

The boy turned round with screams, 

And ran with terror wild ; 
One of the pair of savage beasts 

Pursued the shrieking child. 

The hunter raised his gun. 
He knew one charge was all, 

And through the boy's pursuing foe 
He sent his only ball. 

The other on George Nidiver 
Came on with dreadful pace ; 

The hunter stood unarmicd, 
And met him face to face. 

I say unarmed he stood ; 

Against those frightful paws. 
The rifle-butt, or club of wood, 

Could stand no more than straws. 

George Nidiver stood still, 
And looked him in the face ; 

The wild beast stopped amazed. 
Then came wdth slackening pace. 

Still firm the hunter stood, 
Although his heart beat high ; 

Again the creature stopped, 
And gazed with wondering eye. 

The hunter met his gaze, 

Nor yet an inch gave way ; 
The bear turned slowly round, 

And slowly moved away. 

What thoughts were in his mind 

It would be hard to spell ; 
What thoughts were in George Nidiver 

I rather guess than tell. 



2g 



But sure that rifle's aim, 

Swift choice of generous part. 

Showed in his passing gleam 
The depths of a brave heart. 

Anonymous. 



Bonnets. 

LONDOX, 1802. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 

England hath need of thee. She is a fen 

Of stagnant waters. Altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 

Oh, raise us up, return to us again, 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power ! 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the 

sea; 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

TO TOUSSAINT L'oUVERTURE. 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den, 
miserable chieftain ! where and when 

Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be- 
hind 
Powers that will work for thee — air, earth, and 
skies. 
There 's not a breathing of the common 
wind 
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies. 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 

William Wordsworth. 



418 



POEMS OF AMBITIOy. 



What constitutes a state ? 
Not high raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Xot cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — men, high-minded men. 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued. 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude — 

Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main- 
tain. 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; 

These constitute a state ; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will. 

O'er thrones and globes elate. 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline. 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 



(Dn a Dnst of Dante. 

Skk. from this counterfeit of him 

Whom Arno shall remember long. 
How stern of lineament, how grim, 

The father was of Tuscan song ! 

There but the burning sense of wrong. 
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — 

Small friendship for the lordly throng. 
Distrust of all the world beside. 



Faithful if this wan image be, 

No dream his life was, but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that anchorite ? 

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 
Who could have guessed the visions came 

Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 
In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cumae's cavern close. 

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, 

The rigid front, almost morose, 
But for the patient hope within, 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe. 
Which, through the wavering days of sin, 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, 
With no companion save his book. 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 

Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest, 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was rest. 

Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
The sullen warrior sole we trace, 

The marble man of many woes. 

Sucn was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine — 

When hell he peopled with his foes, 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 

The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall. 

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 

lie used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 

But valiant souls of knightly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of time. 

Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 
The only righteous judge art thou ; 

That poor, old exile, sad and lone. 
Is Latium's other Virgil now. 



TEE PLACE WEERE MAN SEOULD DIE. 419 


Before his name the nations bow ; 


Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 


His words are parcel of mankind, 


Let the victors, when they come, 


Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 


When the forts of foUy fall, 


The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 


Find thy body by the wall ! 


Thomas Wllliam Parsons. 


Matthew Arnold. 


(©n a Qerinon against (^lor^. 


^l)e place m\)txz iHan sl^oulb lUie. 


Come then, tell me, sage divine, 


How little recks it where men die, 


Is it an offence to own 


"When once the moment's past 


That our bosoms e'er incline 


In which the dim and glazing eye 


Toward immortal glory's throne ? 


Has looked on earth its last ; 


For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure^ 


Whether beneath the sculptured urn 


XX' X T 

Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, 


The coffined form shall rest, 


So can fancy's dream rejoice, 


Or, in its nakedness, return 


So conciliate reason's choice. 


Back to its mother's breast. 


As one approying word of her impartial voice. 


Death is a common friend or foe, 




As different men may hold, 


If to spurn at noble praise 


And at its summons each must go, 


Be the passport to thy heaven, 


The timid and the bold ; 


Follow thou those gloomy ways — 


But when the spirit, free and warm. 


No such law to me was given ; 


Deserts it, as it must. 


Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me, 


What matter where the lifeless form 


Faring like my friends before me ; 


Dissolves again to dust ? 


Nor an holier place desire 




Than Timoleon's arms acquire, 


The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 


And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. 


Upon the battle-plain, 


Mark Akenside, 


Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 




Above the gory slain : 




But though his corse be grim to see. 




Hoof-trampled on the sod, 


^\)t Cast toorb. 


What recks it when the spirit free 




Has soared aloft to God ! 


Creep into thy narrow bed, 




Creep, and let no more be said ! 


The coward's dying eye may close 


Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 


Upon his downy bed. 


Thou thyself must break at last. 


And softest hands his limbs compose, 




Or garments o'er him spread : 


Let the long contention cease ! 


But ye who shun the bloody fray 


Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 


Where fall the mangled brave, 


Let them have it how they will ! 


Go strip his coffin-lid away. 


Thou art tired ; best be still. 


And see him in his grave ! 


They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee f 


'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 


Better men fared thus before thee ; 


With those we cherish near, 


Fired their ringing shot and passed. 


And, wafted upward by their sighs, 


Hotly charged — and sank at last. 


Soar to some calmer sphere : 



1 

420 POEMS OF 


AMBITIOS. 


But whether on the scaffold high, 


His brow was sad ; his eyes beneath 


Or in the battle's van, 


Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 


The fittest place where man can die 


And like a silver clarion rung 


Is where he dies for man. 


The accents of that unknown tongue — 


Michael Joseph Barry. 


Excelsior ! 




In happy homes he saw the light 




Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 


^^^ pilgrim. 


Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 


Who would true valor see, 


And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 


Let him come hither ! 




One here will constant be, 


" Tr}' not the pass," the old man said : 


Come wind, come weather ; 


" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 


There 's no discouragement 


The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 


Shall make him once relent 


And loud that clarion voice replied. 


His first-avowed intent 


Excelsior ! 


To be a Pilgrim. 






" Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 


Whoso beset him round 


Thy weary head upon this breast I " 


With dismal stories, 


A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 


Do but themselves confound ; 


But still he answered, with a sigh, 


His strength the more is. 


Excelsior ! 


No lion can him fright ; 




He'll with a giant fight ; 


" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch I 


But he will have a right 


Beware the awful avalanche ! " 


To be a Pilgrim. 


This was the peasant's last good-night ; 




A voice replied, far up the height, 


Nor enemy, nor fiend, 


Excelsior ! 


Can daunt his spirit ; 




He knows he at the end 


At break of day, as heavenward 


Shall Life inherit: — 


The pious monks of Saint Bernard 


Then, fancies, fly away ; 


Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 


He'll not fear what men say ; 


A voice cried, through the startled air, 


He'll labor, night and day, 


Excelsior ! 


To be a Pilgrim. 

John Bunt an. 


A traveller, by the faithful hound, 




Half-buried in the snow was found, 




Still grasping in his hand of ice 




That banner with the strange device. 


(!:xccIsior. 


Excelsior ! 


The shades of night were falling fast, 


There in the twilight cold and gray. 


As through an Alpine village passed 


Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 


A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 


And from the sky, serene and far. 


A banner with the strange device — 


A voice fell, like a falling star — 


Excelsior I 


Excelsior ! 




Henrv Wads worth Longfellow. 



PART TI. 



POEMS OF co:medy. 



Oh I never wear a brow of care, or frown with, mef al gravity, 

For wit" s the child, of wisdom, and good hnmor is the twin ; 
;Xo need to play the Pharisee, or groan at man's depravity, 

Let one man be a good man, and let all be fair ^vithin. 
Speak sober truths ^^^th smiluig lips : the bitter wrap in sweetness — 

Sound sense in seeming nonsense, as the grain is hid in chaff : 
And fear not that the lesson e'er may seem to lack completeness — 

A man may say a wise thing, though he say it with a laugh. 

*' A soft word oft turns wrath aside "" tso says the great instructor), 

A smile disarms resentment, and a jest drives gloom away ; 
A cheerful laugh to anger is a magical conductor. 

The deadly flash averring, quickly changing night to day. 
Then, is not he the wisest man who rids his brow of Avrinkles. 

Who bears his load with merry heart, and lightens it by half — 
Whose pleasant tones ring in the ear. as mirthfol music tinkles. 

And whose words are true and tellinsr. though thev echo in a laugh ? 



So temper life's work — weariness with timely relaxation : 

Most witless wight of all he is who never plays the fool ; 
The heart grows gray before the head, when sunk in sad prostration. 

Its ^\iuter knows no Christmas, with its glowing log of Yule. 
Why weep, faint-hearted and forlorn, when e\Tl comes to try us ? 

The fount of hope wells ever nigh — 'twill cheer us if we quaff ; 
And. when the gloomy phantom of despondency stands by us. 

Let OS, in calm defiance, exorcise it with a laugh I 

AXOXT3IOU5. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



®I)e ^cir of Cinne. 

PART FIRST. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

His father was a right good lord, 
His mother a lady of high degree; 

But they, alas ! were dead him fro, 
And he. loved keeping company. 

To spend the day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night. 

To card and dice from even to morn. 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar, 
To always spend and never spare, 

I wot, an he were the king himself, 
Of gold and fee he might be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 

And he maun sell his lands so broad, 
His house, and lands, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen steward. 
And John o' Scales was called he ; 

But John is become a gentleman, 
And John has got both gold and fee. 



Says, " Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne ; 

Let nought disturb thy heavy cheer; 
If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 

Good store of gold I'll give thee here." 

" My gold is gone, my money is spent. 
My land now take it unto thee : 

Give me the gold, good John o' Scales, 
And thine for aye my land shall be." 

Then John he did him to record draw. 
And John he gave him a god's-penny ; 

But for every pound that John agreed, 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the board ; 

He was right glad the land to win : 
" The land is mine, the gold is thine, 

And now I'll be the lord of Linne." 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad ; 

Both hill and holt, and moor and fen. 
All but a poor and lonesome lodge. 

That stood far off in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father hight : 

" My son, when I am gone," said he, 

" Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free ; 

" But swear me now upon the rood, 

That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend. 

For when all the world doth frown on thee. 
Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." 



424 



P0E3IS OF COMEDY 



The heir of Linne is full of gold ; 

And, " Come with me, my friends," said he 
" Let's drink, and rant, and merry make, 

And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." 

They ranted, drank, and merry made, 

Till all his gold it waxed thin ; 
And then his friends they slunk away; 

They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse. 

Never a penny left but three ; 
The one was brass, the other was lead, 

And t'other it was white money. 

" Now well-a-way I " said the heir of Linne, 
" Now well-a-way, and woe is me ! 

For when I w^as the lord of Linne, 
1 never wanted gold nor fee. 

" But many a trusty friend have I, 
And why should 1 feel dole or care ? 

I'll borrow of them all by turns. 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I w'is, was not at home ; 

Another had paid his gold away; 
Another called him thriftless loon. 

And sharply bade him wend his way. 

" Now well-a-way ! " said the heir of Linne, 
" N(^w woll-a-way. and woe is me ! 

For when I had my lands so broad. 
On me they lived right merrily. 

" To l)og my bread from do^r to door, 

1 wis, it were a burning shame : 
To rob and steal it were a sin : 

To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

" Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge. 
For there my father bade me wend : 

When all the world should frown on me, 
I there should find a trusty friend." 

PART SECOND. 

Away then hied the heir of Liime, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fen, 

Until he came to the lonesome lodge, 
That st':od so low in a lonely ^lea 



He looked up, he looked down. 
In hope some comfort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls : 

'* Here's sorry cheer ! " quoth the heir of 
Linne. 

The little window, dim and dark. 
Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone ; 
No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, no table, he mote spy. 

No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed. 

Nought save a rope with a running noose, 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it, in broad letters. 

These words were written, so plain to see : 
" Ah ! graceless wretch, hath spent thy all, 

And brought thyself to penury ? 

" All this my boding mind misgave, 
I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Now let it shield thy foul disgrace. 
And all thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely vexed with this rebuke. 

Sorely vexed was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst, 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spake the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

" This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he drew, 

And sprung aloft with his body; 
When lo I the ceiling burst in twain. 

And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonished lay the heir of Linne, 
Nor knew if he were live or dead ; 

At length he looked and saw a bill, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill and looked it on; 

Straight good comfort found he there: 
It told him of a hole in the wall 

In which there stood three chests in-fere. 



J 



TEE EEIR OF LINNE. 



425 



Two were full of the beaten gold ; 

The third was full of white money ; 
And over them, in broad letters, 

These words were written so plain to see : 

" Once more, my son, I set thee clear ; 

Amend thy life and follies past ; 
For, but thou amend thee of thy life, 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

" And let it be," said the heir of Linne, 

" And let it be, but if I amend : 
For here I will make mine avow. 

This reade shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went the heir of Linne, 
Away he went with merry cheer ; 

I wis he neither stint nor stayed. 

Till John o* the Scales' house he came near. 

And when he came to John o' the Scales, 

Up at the spere then looked he ; 
There sat three lords at the board's end. 

Were drinking of the wine so free. 

Then up bespoke the heir of Linne ; 

To John o' the Scales then could he : 
" I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales, 

One forty pence for to lend me." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

Away, away I this may not be : 
For a curse be on my head," he said, 

" If ever I lend thee one penny." 

Then bespoke the heir of Linne, 

To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he : 
" Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

I pray, for sweet Saint Charity." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

I swear thou gettest no alms of me ; 
For if we should hang any losel here. 

The first we would begin with thee." 

Then up bespoke a good fellow 

"SMiich sat at John o' the Scales his board : 
Said, " Turn again, thou heir of Linne ; 

Some time thou was a well good lord : 



" Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty if need be. 

" And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy company ; 
For well I wot thou hadst his land, 

And a good bargain it was to thee." 

Then up bespoke him John o' the Scales, 
All woode he answered him again : 

" Now a curse be on my head," he said, 
" But I did lose by that bargain. 

" And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 
Before these lords so fair and free, 

Thou Shalt have't back again better cheap. 
By a hundred merks, than I had it of thee." 

" I draw you to record, lords," he said ; 

With that he gave him a god's-penny : 
" Now, by my fay," said the heir of Linne, 

" And here, good John, is thy money." 

And he pulled forth the bags of gold. 
And laid them down upon the board ; 

All wo-begone was John o' the Scales, 
So vexed he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold, 
He told it forth with mickle din ; 

" The gold is thine, the land is mine. 
And now I'm again the lord of Linne ! " 

Says, " Have thou here, thou good fellow ; 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I'm again the lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee." 

" Now well-a-way ! " quoth Joan o' the Scales, 
" Now well-a-way, and wo is my life ! 

Yesterday I was lady of Linne, 
Now I'm but John o' the Scales his wife." 

" Now fare-thee-well," said the heir of Linne, 
" Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said he ; 

" When next I want to sell my land. 
Good John o' the Scales, I'll come to thee." 

Anontmotjs. 



426 



FOFJIS OF COMEDY 



Uing ilol)n anb \\\t ^bbot of Canter- 
bury. 

Ax ancient story I'll tell you anon 
Of a notable prince that was called King John : 
And he ruled England with main and with might. 
For he did great wrong and maintained Little right. 

And I'll tell you a story, a ston* so merry 
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury ; 
How for his house-keeping and high renown, 
They rode poste for him to fair London towne. 

An hundred men the king did heare say 
The ablx)t kept in his house every day ; 
And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt 
In velvet coates waited the abbot about. 

'* How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, 
Thou keepest a farre better house than me ; 
And for thy house-keeping and high renown, 
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.'' 

'• My liege," quo' the abbot, *' I would it were knowne 
I never spend nothing but what is my owne ; 
And 1 trust your grace will doe me no deere, 
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." 

" Ves, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe. 
And now for the same thou needest must dye : 
For except thou canst answer me questions three. 
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. 

'• And first," quo' the king, '' when I'm in this 

stead, 
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe. 
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. 

" Secondly, tell me. without any doubt. 
How soone I may ride the whole world al^out : 
And at the third question thou must not shrink, 
But tell me here truly what I do think." 

'•O these are hard questions for my shallow witt. 
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet : 
But if you will give me but three weeks' space, 
I'll do my endeavor to answer your grace." 



•• Xow three weeks' space to thee will I give, 
And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; 
For if thou dost not answer my questions three, 
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." 

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, 
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford ; 
Bu^ never a doctor there was so wise. 
That could with his learning an answer devise. 

Then home rode the- abbot of comfort so cold. 
And he met his shepheard a-going to fold : 
" How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home ; 
What newes do you bring us from good King John ?" 

" Sad news, sad news, shepheard. I must give, 
That I have but three days more to live ; 
For if I do not answer him questions three, 
My head will be smitten from my bodie. 

'• The first is to tell him, there in that stead. 
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, 
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth. 
To within one penny of what he is worth. 

" The seconde. to tell him, without any doubt. 
How soone he may ride this whole world about ; 
And at the third question I must not shrinke. 
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.'' 

'• Xow cheare up. sire abbot, did you never hear yet, 
That a fool he may leame a wise man witt f 
Lend me horse, and serving-men. and your apparel. 
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. 

" Xay. frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, 
I am like your lordshi[i. as ever may W: 
And if you will but lend me your gowne. 
There is none shall know us at fair London towne." 

•• Xow horses and serving-men thou shalt have. 
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave. 
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, 
Fit to api)ear 'fore our fader the pope." 

'• Xow wokome. sire abbot." the king he did say, 
"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: 
For and if thou canst answer my questions three, 
Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 



THE DRAGON OF WANTLET. 



427 



"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe. 
Tell me to one penny what I am worth." 

" For thirty pence our Saviour was sold 
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told : 
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, 
For I think thou art one penny worser than he." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, 
" I did not think I had been worth so littel I 

— Xow secondly tell me, without any doubt, 
How soone I may ride this whole world about. 

" You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same 
Until the next morning he riseth againe ; 
And then your grace need not make any doubt 
But in twenty-four hours youTL ride it about." 

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, 
" I did not think it could be gone so soone ! 

— Xow from the thu'd question thou must not 

shrinke. 
But teU me here truly what I do thinke." 

"Yea, that shall I do. and make your grace merry; 
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury : 
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see. 
That liave come to beg pardon for him and for me." 

The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, 
" Fll make thee lord abbot this day in his place ! " 
" Xow naye. my liege, be not in such speede, 
For alacke I can neither write ne reade." 

" Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee. 
For this merry Jest thou hast showne unto me ; 
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home. 
Thou has brought him a pardon from good King 
J ohn. AxoxTMor s . 



^l]c Dragon of tXlantlcn. 

Old stories tell how Hercules 

A dragon slew at Lerna, 
With seven heads and fourteen eyes, 

To see and well discern-a ; 



But he had a club this dragon to drub. 
Or he ne'er had done it, I warrant ye ; 

But 3Iore, of More-hall, with nothing at aU, 
He slew the dragon of Wantley. 

This dragon had two furious wings, 

Each one upon each shoulder ; 
With a sting in his tail as long as a flail, 

Which made him bolder and bolder. 
He had long claws, and in his jaws 

Foui'-and-forty teeth of iron ; 
With a hide as tough as any buff. 

Which did him round environ. 

Have you not heard how the Trojan horse 

Held seventy men in his belly ? 
This dragon was not quite so big, 

But very near, I'll teU ye ; 
Devoured he poor children three, 

That could not with him grapple ; 
And at one sup he ate them up. 

As one would eat an apple. 

All sorts of cattle this dragon would eat. 

Some say he ate up trees. 
And that the forests sure he would 

Devour up by degrees ; 
For houses and churches were to him geese and 
turkeys ; 

He ate aU and left none behind. 
But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not 
crack. 

Which on the hiUs you will find. 

Hard by a furious kniglit there dwelt ; 

Men, women, girls, and boys. 
Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, 

And made a hideous noise. 
Oh, save us all, More of More-hall, 

Thou peerless knight of these woods ; 
Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, 

We'll give thee all our goods. 

This being done, he did engage 

To hew the dragon down ; 
But first he went new armor to 

Bespeak at Sheffield town ; 
With spikes aU about, not within but without, 

Of steel so sharp and strong, 



i28 



P0E3IS OF COMEDY. 



Both behind and before, leofs, arms, and all o'er. 



Some five or six inches long. 



Had you but seen him in this dress, 

How fierce he looked, and how big, 
You would have thought him for to be 

Some Egyptian porcupig : 
He frighted all cats, dogs, and all. 

Each cow, each horse, and each hog ; 
For fear they did flee, for they took him to be 

Some strange, outlandish hedge-hog. 

To see this fight all people then 

Got up on trees and houses, 
On churches some, and chimneys too ; 

But these put on their trousers, 
Xot to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose. 

To make him strong and mighty, 
He drank, by the tale, six pots of ale, 

And a quart of aqua-vitae. 

It is not strength that always wins, 

For wit doth strength excel ; 
Which made our cunning champion 

Creep down into a well, 
Where he did think this dragon would drink. 

And so he did in truth ; 
And as he stooped low, he rose up and cried, boh ! 

And kicked him in the mouth. 

Oh ! quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh. 

And turned six times together. 
Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing 

Out of his throat of leather. 
More of More-hall, oh thou rascal ! 

Would I had seen thee never ! 
With the thing at thy foot thou hast pricked my 
throat. 

And I'm quite undone forever ! 

Murder, murder ! the dragon cried, 

Ahu'k, alack, for grief ! 
Had you but missed that place, you could 

Have done me no mischief. 
Then his head he shaked, trembled, and quaked. 

And down he lay and cried ; 
First on one kneo. then on back tumbled he, 

So groaned, and kicked, and died. 

Pld Ballad. (English.) 
Version of Coventry Patmore. 



I cAxyoT eat but little meat — 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care ; 

I am nothing a-cold — 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 

Back ayid side go hare, go bare; 
Both foot and hand go cold ; 

But, heJbj, God send thee good ale enough, 
^yhether it be new or old ! 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire ; 
A little bread shall do me stead — 

Much bread I not desire. 
Xo frost nor snow, nor wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold — 
I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt 

Of jolly good ale and old. 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek. 
Full oft drinks she, till you may see 

The tears run down her cheek ; 
Then doth she trowl to me the IdowI, 

Even as a malt-worm should ; 
And saith, " Sweetheart, I took my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, 

Even as good fellows should do : 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls. 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 
Whether they be young or old ! 
Back and side go bare, go bare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. 
Whether it he new or old ! 

John Still. 



TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE. 429 




@^l)e lomai jBeggar. 


(lEake tl)2 ^^ aTbake about ^\\tz. 




There was a jovial beggar, 


This winter weather it waxeth cold. 




He had a wooden leg, 


And frost doth freese on every hill ; 




Lame from his cradle, 


And Boreas blows his blastes so cold 




And forced for to beg. 


That all ur cattell are like to spill. 




And a-begging we will go, 


Bell, my wife, who loves no strife, 




Will qo, will qo, 


i Shee sayd unto me quietlye. 




t7 7 (7 " 

And a-begging we will go. . 


• Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life — 
Man, put thy old cloake about thee. 




A bag for his oatmeal, 






Another for his salt, 


HE. 




And a long pair of crutches, 


Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne % 




To show that he can halt. 


Thou kenst my cloake is very thin ; 
It is so bare and overworne 




A bag for his wheat, 


A cricke he thereon can not renn. 




Another for his rye, 


Then He no longer borrowe or lend, 




And a little bottle by his side, 


O 7 

For once He new apparelled be ; 




To drink when he's a-dry. 


1. X ' 

To morrow He to towne, and spend. 




Seven years I begged 

For my old master Wilde, 


For He have a new cloake about me. 




He taught me how to beg 


SHE. 




When I was but a child. 


Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow — 
She has been alwayes true to the payle ; 




I begged for my master, 


She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow, 




And got him store of pelf, 


And other things she will not f ayle ; 




But goodness now be praised. 


I wold be loth to see her pine ; 




I'm begging for myself. 


Good husbande, counsel take of me — 
It is not for us to go so fine ; 




In a hollow tree 


Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 




I live, and pay no rent. 






Providence provides for me, 


HE. 




And I am well content. 


JULJ-il 

My cloake, it was a very good cloake — 




Of all the occupations 


It hath been alwayes true to the weare ; 




A beggar's is the best, 


But now it is not worth a groat ; 




For whenever he's a-weary, 


I have had it four-and-forty yeare. 




He can lay him down to rest. 


Sometime it was of cloth in graine ; 

'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see ; 




I fear no plots against me, 


It will neither hold nor winde nor raine — 




I live in open cell ; 


And He have a new cloake about me. 




Then who would be a king, lads, 






When the beggar lives so well ? 


SHE. 




And a-begging ive will go, 


It is four-and-forty yeeres ago 




Will go, will go, 


Since the one of us the other did ken ; 




And a-begging we will go. 


And we have had betwixt us towe 




Anonymous. 


Of children either nine or ten ; 



4:30 



POEJIS OF COJIFDF 



We have brought them up to women and men — 
In the fere of God I trowe they be ; 

And why wilt thou thyself raisken — 
3Ian. take thy old cloake about thee. 

HE. 

Bell, my wife, why dost thou floute ? 

Xow is now. and then was then : 
Seeke now all the world throughout. 

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen : 
They are clad in blacke. greene, yellowe, or gray, 

So far above their own degree — 
Once in my life lie do as they. 

For He have a new cloake about me. 

SHE. 

King Stephen was a worthy peere — 

His breeches cost him but a crowne ; 
He held them sixpence all too deere. 

Therefore he called the tailor loon. 
He was a wight of high renowne, 

And thou'se but of a low degree — 
It's pride that puts this countrye downe ; 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee. 

HE. 

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, 

Yet she will lead me if she can ; 
And oft to live a quiet life 

I'm forced to yield though I be good-man. 
It 's not for a man with a woman to threepe, 

Unless he first give o'er the plea ; 
As we began sae will we leave, 

And He tak my old cloake about me. 

AxoxTjiors. 



illalbronck. 

Malbrouck. the prince of commanders. 
Is gone to the war in Flanders ; 
His fame is like Alexander's ; 

But when will he come home f 

Perhaps at Trinity fea«t : or 
Perhaps he may come at Easter. 
Egad I he had better make haste, or 
We fear he mar never come. 



For Trinity feast is over, 
And has brought no news from Dover ; 
And Easter is past, moreover. 
And Malbrouck still delays. 

Milady in her watch-tower 
Spends many a pensive hour, 
Xot kno^sing why or how her 

Dear lord from England stays. 

While sitting quite forlorn in 
That tower, she spies returning 
A page clad in deep mourning. 
With fainting steps and slow. 

*• O page, pnthee, come faster I 

What news do you bring of your master f 

I fear there is some disaster — 

Your looks are so full of woe." 

" The news I bring, fair lady," 
With sorrowful accent said he, 
'• Is one you are not ready 
So soon, alas I to hear. 

" But since to speak I'm hurried," 
Added this page quite flurried. 
'' Malbrouck is dead and buried ! " 
— And here he shed a tear. 

" He 's dead I he 's dead as a herring ! 
For I beheld his l^erring. 
And four officers transferring 

His corpse away from the field. 

" One officer carried his sabre : 
And he carried it not without labor, 
Much envying his next neighbor, 
Who only bore a shield. 

"The third was helmet-bearer — 
That helmet which on its wearer 
Filled all who saw with terror, 
And covered a hero's brains. 

** Xow. having got so far, I 

Find, that — by the Lord Harry I — 

The fourth is left nothing to carry : — 

So there the thing remains." 

AxoSTHOus. (French.) 
Translation of Father PRorr. 



THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. 



431 



^\)t ®lb ax{b goung Courtier. 

An old song made by an aged old pate^ 

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great 

estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful 

rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; 
Lihe an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old lady, whose anger one word as- 
suages ; 

They every quarter paid their old servants their 
wages. 

And never knew what belonged to coachmen, foot- 
men, nor pages. 

But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and 
badges ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old study filled full of learned old 

books ; 
With an old reverend chaplain — you might know 

him by his looks ; 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the 

hooks ; 
And an old kitchen that maintained half a dozen 

old cooks ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's. 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and 

bows, 
With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many 

shrewd blows ; 
And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk 

hose, 
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper 

nose; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With a good old fashion, when Christmas was 

come. 
To call in all his old neighbors with bagpipe and 

drum; 



With good cheer enough to furnish every old room. 
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man 
dumb; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's, 

And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of 

hounds. 
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his oWn 

grounds ; 
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own 

bounds. 
And when he dyed, gave every child a thousand 

good pounds ; 

Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

But to his eldest son his house and land he assigned. 
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful 

mind — 
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbors 

be kind ; 
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was 
inclined, 
Ijike a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to 
his land. 

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his com- 
mand ; 

And takes up a thousand pound upon his father's 
land; 

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go 
nor stand ; 

Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and 
spare. 

Who never knew what belonged to good housekeep- 
ing or care ; 

Who buys gaudy-colored fans to play with wanton 
air, 

And seven or eight different dressings of other 
women's hair ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's. 
And the king's young courtier. 



432 



P0E3IS OF COMEDY 



With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one 
stood, 

Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor 
no good ; 

With a fine marble chimney, whercin burns neither 
coal nor wood ; 

And a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no vic- 
tuals ne'er stood ; 

Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and 

plays ; 
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he 

prays ; 
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four 

or five days. 
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws, 

and toys ; 

Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new fashion when Christmas is drawing 

on — 
On a new journey to London straight we all must 

be gone, 
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter 

John, 
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back 

with a stone ; 

Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is 

complete ; 
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry 

up the meat ; 
With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is 

very neat — 
Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants 

not eat ; 
Like a young courtier of the king^s, 
And the king^s young courtier. 

With new titles of honor bought with his father's 

old gold, 
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are 

sold: 



And this is the course most of our new gallants 

hold. 
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown 
so cold 
Amotig the young courtiers of the king 
Or the king's young courtiers. 

Anonymous. 



^n ^IcQS on \\)c Dcatl) of a iXXah Dog. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if vou find it wond'rous short 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 
Of whom the world might say 

That still a godly race he ran. 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends, 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wandering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye : 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That showed the rogues they lied : 

The man recovered of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



433 



(j:i)e Uape of X\)t Cock. 

AX HEROI-COMICAL POEM. 

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos ; 

Sed juvat hoc precibus me tribuisse luis. — Martial. 

CANTO I. 

What dire offence from amorous causes springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing — This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due ; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view : 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive, goddess I could com- 
pel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? 
Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 
In tasks so bold can little men engage. 
And in soft bosoms dwell such mighty rage ? 

Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, 
And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake. 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake : 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the 

ground. 
And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest — 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest : 
'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovered o'er her head : 
A youth more glittering than a birthnight beau 
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to glow,) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say : 

" Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air I 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, 
Of airy elves by moonlight-shadows seen. 
The silver token, and the circled green ; 
Or virgins visited by angel powers 
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flow- 
ers — 
Hear and believe ! thy own importance know, 
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed, 
To maids alone and children are revealed ; 
30 



What though no credit doubting wits may give ? 

The fair and innocent shall still believe. 

Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly — 

The light militia of the lower sky ; 

These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, 

Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. 

Think what an equipage thou hast in air. 

And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 

As now your own, our beings were of old. 

And once enclosed in woman's beauteous mould ; 

Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 

From earthly vehicles to these of air. 

Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, 

That all her vanities at once are dead ; 

Succeeding vanities she still regards. 

And, though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 

cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 
And love of ombre, after death survive ; 
For when the fair in all their pride expire. 
To their first elements their souls retire ; 
The sprites of fiery termagant in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamanders name ; 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away. 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea ; 
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam ; 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 

" Know further yet ; whoever fair and chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced : 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 
What guards the purity of melting maids, 
In courtly balls and midnight masquerades. 
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark, 
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark — 
When kind occasion j)rompts their warm desires, 
When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, 
Though honor is the word with men below, 

" Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their 
face, 
For life predestined to the gnome's embrace ; 
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, 
When offers are disdained, and love denied ; 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 
train. 



484 



POEMS OF COMEDY 



And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 

And in soft sounds, ' Your grace,' salutes their 

ear. 
'Tis these tliat early taint the female soul, 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll ; 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 

" Oft when the world imagine women stray, 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way; 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 
To one man's treat, but for another's ball ? 
When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? 
With varying vanities from every part 
They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart ; 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword- 
knots strive, 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
This erring mortals le\ity may call — 
Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 

'• Of these am I, who thy protection claim ; 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star, 
I saw, alas I some dread event impend, 
Ere to the main this morning's sun descend ; 
But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where : 
Warned by the sylph, pious maid, beware I 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can ; 
Beware of all, but most beware of man ! " 

He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept too 
long, 
Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true. 
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors, were no sooner read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears — 
To that she lx?nds. to that her eyes she rears; 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 



From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs — the speckled, and the 

white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows ; 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux. 
Xow awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care. 
These set the head, and these divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; 
And Betty 's praised for labors not her own. 

CAXTO II. 

Xot with more glories, in the ethereal plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her 

shone. 
But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose — 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun. her eyes the gazers strike ; 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on lu-r face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Xourished two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth, ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; 



I 



THE RAFE OF THE LOCK. 



4:35 



Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. 
And beautr draws us with a sincrle hair. 

Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired ; 
He saw. he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win. he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lovers toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious heaven, and every power adored ; 
But chiefly love — to love an altar built, 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves : 
With tender biUets-doux he lights the pyre. 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer ; 
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides. 
The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; 
While melting music steals upon the sky. 
And softened sounds along the waters die : 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently plav, 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts opprest. 
Th* impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He sunmions straight his denizens of air : 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair : 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe. 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold. 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold. 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light : 
Loose to the winds their airy garments flew — 
Thin, glittering textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies. 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes ; 
While every beam now transient colors flings. 
Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 
His purple pinions opening to the sun. 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : 

**Te sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give 
earl 
Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear ! 



Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned 
By laws eternal to the aerial kind : 
Some in the fields of purest ether play. 
And bask and whiten iu the blaze of day : 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high. 
Or roll the planets through the Ijoundless sky : 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night. 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintiy main, 
Or o'er the glebe distill the kindly rain : 
Others, on earth, o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide ; 
Of these the chief the cai'e of nations own. 
And guard with arms divine the British throne. 

" Our humbler province is to tend the fair, 
Xot a less pleasing, though less glorious care : 
To save the p»owder from too rude a gale. 
Xor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainliows, ere they drop in showers, 
A brighter wash : to curl their waving hairs. 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Xay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, 
To change a flounc-e, or add a furbelow. 

" This day black omens threat the brightest fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in 

night — 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law. 
Or some frail china Jar receive a flaw ; 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
Or lose her heart, or necklac-e, at a ball : 
Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock must 

fall— 
Haste, then, ye spirits I to your charge repair : 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 
The drops to thee, BriUante. we consign ; 
And. Momentilla. let the watch be thine : 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock : 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 
•• To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. 
We trust the important charge, the petticoat — 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail. 
Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of 

whale — 



436 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the wide circumference around. 

•• Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, 
B^ stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins, 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain ; 
Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivalled flower ; 
Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill : 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow. 
And tremble at the sea that froths l)elow ! " 

He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend : 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 
Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair ; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait, 
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 

CAXTO III. 

Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flowers, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame. 
Which from the neighlioring Hampton takes its 

name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 
Here, thou, great Anna I whom three realms obey. 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 

Hither the heroes and the nymphs ivsoit, 
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court: 
In various talk the instructive hours they past ; 
Who gave the V>all, or paid the visit last: 
One speaks the glory of the British queen : 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes — 
At every word a reputation dies ; 
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat. 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray : 
The huny^ry judges soon the sentence sign. 
And wrotc^hes hang that jurymen may dine : 
The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, 
And the long la)x)rs of the toilet cease. 



Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 
Bums to encounter two adventurous knights 
At ombre singly to decide their doom. 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join. 
Each band the number of the sacred nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First Ariel perched upon a matadore. 
Then each according to the rank they bore ; 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold ; four kings in majesty revered, 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard : 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flower, 
The expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care ; 
'• Let spades be trumps ! " she said, and trumps they 
were. 

Xow move to war her sable matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord ! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 
As many more Manillio forced to yield, 
And marched a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
The hoary majesty of spades appears. 
Puts forth one manly leg. to sight revealed, 
The rest his many-colored robe concealed. 
The reljel knave, who dares his prince engage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 
E'en mighty Pam. that kings and queens o'erthrew, 
And mowed down armies in the fights of loo, 
Sad chance of war I now destitute of aid. 
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 
Xow to the baron fate inclines the field. 
His warlike amazon her host invades, 
The imperial consort of the crown of spades. 
The club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
Spite of his haughty mien and barbarous pride : 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread — 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



4o7 



That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe ? 

The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; 
The embroidered king who shows but half his face, 
And his refulgent queen, with powers combined, 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. 
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons — 
With like confusion different nations fly. 
Of various habit, and of various dye ; 
The pierced battalions disunited fall 
In heaps on heaps — one fate o'erwhelms them all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts. 
And wins (oh, shameful chance I) the queen of 

hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill, 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate : 
An ace of hearts steps forth ; the king unseen 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen ; 
He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky ; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 

Oh, thoughtless mortals I ever blind to fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate ! 
Sudden these honors shall be snatched away. 
And cursed for ever this victorious day. 

For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 
crowned ; 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; 
On shining altars of japan they raise 
The silver lamp : the fiery spirits blaze ; 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 
Wliile China's earth receives the smoking tide. 
At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band : 
Some, as she sipped, the fuming licpior fanned : 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed. 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 
And see through all things with his half-shut 
eyes) 



Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
Xew stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth I desist ere 'tis too late ; 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate I 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air. 
She dearly pays for Xisus' injured hair I 

But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 
How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case : 
So ladies, in romance, assist their knight — 
Present the spear and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair ; 
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear ; 
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew 

near. 
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought : 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. 
He watched the ideas rising in her mind. 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired. 
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 

The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, 
T' enclose the lock : now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 
Fate ui'ged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, 
(But airy substance soon unites again :) 
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 

Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. 
Xot louder shrieks to pit}'ing Heaven are cast 
Wlien husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their 

last: 
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie I 

"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples 
twine," 
The victor cried, " the glorious prize is mine I 
Wliile fish in streams, or birds delight in air ; 
Or in a coach and six the British fair ; 



4:^8 



P0E2IS OF COMEDY 



As long as Atalantis shall be read, 

Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed ; 

While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 

When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze ; 

While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, 

So long my honor, name, and praise shall live ! 

What time would spare, from steel receives its 

date ; 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! 
Steel could the labor of the gods destroy, 
And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy ; 
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, 
And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
What wonder then, fair nymph I thy hairs should 

feel 
The conquering force of unresisted steel?" 

CANTO IV. 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph opprest, 
And secret passions labored in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive ; 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive ; 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss ; 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss ; 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die ; 
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinned awr}', 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravished hair. 

For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew. 
And Ar'cl weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper scene. 
Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows ; 
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto sheltered close from air. 
And screened in shades from day's detested glare. 
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed. 
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her liead. 

Two handmaids wait the throne ; alike in place, 
But difl'ering far in figure and in face. 
Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid, 
Iler wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ; 
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and 

noons, 
Her hand is filled: her bosom witli lampoons. 



There Affectation, with a sickly mien. 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen ; 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride ; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe. 
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show — 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
When each new night-dress gives a new dis- 
ease. 

A constant vapor o'er the palace flies ; 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise — 
Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 

Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen, 
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living teapots stand, one arm held out. 
One bent — the handle this, and that the spout ; 
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks ; 
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works ; 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks. 

Safe passed the. gnome through this fantastic 
band, 
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. 
Then thus addressed the power — "Hail, wayward 

fpieen I 
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen ; 
Parent of vapors and of female wit, 
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit. 
On various tempers act by various ways, 
Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay, 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 
A nymph there is that all your power disdains. 
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 
But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, 
Or raise a pim])le on a beauteous face. 
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame. 
Or change complexions at a losing game — 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. 
Or caused susj)icion when no soul was rude. 
Or discomposed the headdress of a prude. 
Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease. 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease — 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 



439 



Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 
That single act gives half the world the spleen." 

The goddess, with a discontented air, 
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, 
Like that when once Ulysses held the winds ; 
There she collects the force of female lungs, 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. 

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found. 
Her eye dejected, and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, 
And all the furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
" wretched maid ! " she spread her hands and cried, 
(While Hampton's echoes, " Wretched maid," re- 
plied,) 
" Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare ? 
For this your locks in paper durance bound ? 
For this with torturing irons wreathed around ? 
For this with fillets strained your tender head 1 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair. 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ? 
Honor forbid ! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
Methinks already I your tears survey, 
Already hear the horrid things they say ; 
Already see you a degraded toast. 
And all your honor in a whisper lost ! 
How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend 1 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, the inestimable prize. 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes. 
And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, 
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze ? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. 
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 

She said ; then, raging, to Sir Plume repairs. 
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs. 
Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, 



With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking face, 
He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, 
And thus broke out — " My lord, why, what the 

devil ! 
Z — ds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! 
Plague on 't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee, pox ! 
Give her the hair." — He spoke, and rapped his box. 

" It grieves me much (replied the peer again) 
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair ; 
Which never more its honors shall renew, 
Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew,) 
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 

But Umbriel, hateful gnome, forbears not so ; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 
Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, 
Her eyes half-languishing, half drowned in tears ; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 
Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said : 

" For ever cursed be this detested day, 
Which snatched my best, my favorite curl away ; 
Happy, ah ten times happy had I been. 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ; 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 
By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. 
Oh had I rather unadmired remained 
In some lone isle, or distant northern land; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way. 
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea ! 
There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye. 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam ? 
Oh had I stayed, and said my prayers at home ! 
'Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell, 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox fell ; 
The tottering china shook without a wind. 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! 
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, 
In mystic visions, now believsd too late ! 
See the poor remnant of these slighted hairs ! 
My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine spares : 
These in two sable ringlets taught to break, 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone. 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 



440 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. 
Oh hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize 
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! " 

CANTO V. 

She said : the pitying audience melt in tears ; 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails. 

For who can move when fair Belinda fails? 

Xot half so fixed the Trojan could remain. 

While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. 

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : 

" Say, why are beauties praised and honored most, 

The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast ? 

Why decked with all that land and sea afford ? 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored ? 

Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved 
beaux f 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? 

How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 

Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 

That men may say, when we the front-box grace. 

Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 

Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day, 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away. 

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro- 
duce. 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ? 

To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint ; 

Xor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint. 

But since, alas I frail beauty must decay ; 

Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray ; 

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, 

And she who scorns a man must die a maid, 

Wliat then remains, but well our power to use. 

And keep good humor still, whatever we lose? 

And trust me. dear, good humor can prevail, 

Wlicn airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding 
fail. 

Bounties in vain their pretty eyes may roll — 

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." 
So spo'.ve the dame, but no applause ensued ; 

B liiida frowned, Thalestris called her prude. 

'■ To arms, to arms I " the fierce virago cries, 

And swift as liglitning to the combat flies. 

All side in parties, and begin the attack ; 

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack ; 



Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, 
And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 
No common weapons in their hands are found — 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, 
And heavenly breasts with human passions rage ; 
'Gainst Pallas Mars ; Latona Hermes arms ; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; 
Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, 
Blue Xeptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound ; 
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives 

way, 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 

Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height. 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the fight ; 
Propped on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey 
The gi'owing combat, or assist the fray. 

While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
A beau and witling perished in the throng — 
One died in metaphor, and one in song : 
" cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast, 
"Those eyes are made so killing" — was his last. 
Thus on Ma?ander's flowery margin lies 
The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain. 
But at her smile the beau revived again. 

Now^ Jove suspends his golden scales in air, 
Weighs the men's wits against tlie lady's hair ; 
The doul)tful beam long nods from side to side; 
At length the wits mount up, tlie hairs subside, 

See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes; 
Xor feared the cliief th" unequal fight to try. 
Who sought no more than on liis foe to die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; 
The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titilhiting dust. 
Sudden, willi starting tears each eye o'crflows, 
And the higli dome reechoes to liis nose. 

" Now meet thy fate ! " incensed Belinda cried, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



441 



(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great -great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seai-rings ; which after, melted down, 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew — 
The bells she Jingled, and the whistle blew : 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 

" Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting foe ! 
Thou by some other slialt be laid as low ; 
Xor think to die dejects my lofty mind ; 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah let me still survive, 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 

" Restore the lock ! " she cries ; and all around 
" Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed. 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, 
In every place is sought, but sought in vain ; 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 
So heaven decrees ! with heaven who can contest ? 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there ; 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases. 
And beaux' in snuif-boxes and tweezer-cases ; 
There broken vows and deathbed alms are found. 
And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound. 
The courtier's promises, and sick men's prayers. 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, 
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes : 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- 
drew, 
To Proculus alone confessed in view :) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. 
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. 
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 
And, pleased, pursue its progress through the 
skies. 

This the beau monde shall from the Mall sur- 
vey, 
And hail with music its propitious ray ; 



This the blest lover shall for Yenus take, 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake ; 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies 
^\lien next he looks through G-alileo's eyes ; 
And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 

Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy rav- 
ished hair. 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Xot all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
For after all the murders of your eye, 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die : 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust — 
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 

Alexander Pope. 



I. 

You 're my friend : 

I was the man the Duke spoke to ; 

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too ; 

So, here 's the tale from beginning to end. 

My friend ! 

II. 

Ours is a great wild country : 

If you climb to our castle's top, 

I don't see where your eye can stop ; 

For when you've passed the cornfield country, 

Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 

And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, 

And cattle-tract to open-chase. 

And open-chase to the very base 

Of the mountain, where, at a funeral pace, 

Round about, solemn and slow, 

One by one, row after row. 

Up and up the pine-trees go. 

So, like black priests up, and so 

Down the other side again 

To another greater, wilder country. 

That 's one vast red drear burnt-up plain. 

Branched thro' and thro' with many a vein 

Whence iron 's dug, and copper 's dealt ; 

Look right, look left, look straight before, — ■ 



442 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



great 



Beneath they mine, above they smelt, 
Copper-ore and iron-ore. 
And forge and furnace mould and melt, 
And so on, more and ever more. 
Till, at the last, for a bounding belt, 
Comes the salt sand hoar of the 

shore, 
— And the whole is our Duke's countrv I 



in. 

I was born the day this present Duke was — 
(And 0, says the song, ere I was old ! ) 
In the castle where the other Duke was — 
(When I was hopeful and young, not old I) 
1 in the Kennel, he in the Bower : 
We are of like age to an hour. 
My father was Huntsman in that day ; 
Wlio has not heard my father say 
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 
Three times, four times out of five, 
With his hunt-spear he'd contrive 
To get the killing-place transfixed, 
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt ? 
And that 's why the old Duke had rather 
Have lost a salt-pit than my father. 
And loved to have him ever in call : 
That's why my father stood in the hall 
When the old Duke brought his infant out 
To show the people, and while they passed 
The wondrous bantling round about, 
Was first to start at the outside blast 
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn. 
Just a month after the babe was born. 
" And,'' quoth the Kaiser's courier, " since 
The Duke has got an Heir, our Prince 
Xeeds the Duke's self at his side : " 
The Duke looked down and seemed to wince. 
But he thought of wars o'er the world wide. 
Castles a-fire, men on their march. 
The toppling tower, the crashing arch : 
And up he looked, and awhile he eyed 
The row of crests and shields and banners. 
Of all achievements after all manners. 
And " ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. 
The more was his comfort when he died 
At next year's end, in a velvet suit, 
With a gilt glove on his hand, and his foot 
In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 
Pctticoated like a herald. 



sea- 



In a chamber next to an ante-room, 

Where he breathed the breath of page and groom. 

What he called stink, and they, perfume : 

— They should have set him on red Berold, 
Mad with pride, like fire to manage ! 

They should have got his cheek fresh tannage 
Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine I 
Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin ! 
( — Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game ! 
Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 
To flap each broad wing like a banner. 
And turn in the wind, and dance like flame !) 
Had they broached a cask of white beer from Ber- 
lin l' 

— Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine — 
Put to his lips, when they saw him pine, 

A cup of our own Moldavia fine. 
Cotnar. for instance, green as May sorrel. 
And ropy with sweet, — we shall not quarrel. 

IV. 

So. at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 

Was left with the infant in her clutches. 

She being the daughter of God knows who ; 

And now was the time to revisit her tribe. 

So. abroad and afar they went, the two. 

And let our people rail and gibe 

At the empty Hall and extinguished fire, 

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain. 

Till after long years we had our desire. 

And back came tlie Duke and his mother again. 

V. 

And he came back the pertest little ape 
That ever affronted human shape : 
Full of his travel, struck at himself — 
You'd say he despised our bluff old ways 

— Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf 

That our rough North land was the Land of Lays, 
The one good thing left in evil days : 
Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 
Could you taste of it yet as in its prime. 
And see true castles, with proper towers, 
Voung-hearted women, old-minded men. 
And manners now as manners were then. 
So, all that the old Dukes had been, without know- 
ing it. 
This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



443 



'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his 
showing it, 

Xor for the pride's seK, but the pride of our see- 
ing it, 

He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, 

The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them 
torn-out : 

And chief in the chase his neck he perilled, 

On a lathy horse, ail legs and length, 

With blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; 

— They should have set him on red Berold, 
With the red eye slow consuming in fij'e, 
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire ! 

YI. 

Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard : 
And out of a convent, at the word, 
Came the Lady, in time of spring. 

— Oh, old thoughts, they cling, they cling ! 
That day, I know, with a dozen oaths 

I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes 

Fit for the chase of urox or buffle 

In winter-time when you need to muffle ; 

Bui the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure. 

And so we saw the Lady arrive : 

My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger ! 

She was the smallest lady alive, 

Made, in a piece of Xature's madness. 

Too small, almost, for the life and gladness 

That over-filled her, as some hive 

Out of the bears' reach on the high trees 

Is crowded with its safe merry bees : 

In truth, she was not hard to please I 

Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, 

Straight at the castle, that 's best indeed 

To look at from outside the walls : 

As for us, styled the " serfs and thraUs," 

She as much thanked me as if she had said it, 

(With her eyes, do you understand ?) 

Because I patted her horse while I led it ; 

And Max, who rode on her other hand, 

Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 

What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired — 

If that was an eagle she saw hover, — 

If the green and gray bird on the field was the plover. 

When suddenly a23pcared the Duke. 

And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed 

On to my hand, — as with a rebuke. 

And as if his backbone were not jointed, 



The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, 
And welcomed her with his grandest smile ; 
And, mind you, his mother all the while 
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Xor'ward ; 
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys 
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis ; 
And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, 
The Lady's face stopped its play, 
As if her first hair had grown gray — 
For such things must begin some one day ! 

VII. 

In a day or two she was well again ; 

As who should say, " You labor in vain ! 

This is all a jest against God, who meant 

I should ever be, as I am, content 

And glad in his sight : therefore, glad I will 

be!" 
So smiling as at first went she. 

VIII. 

She was active, stirring, all fire — 

Could not rest, could not tire — 

To a stone she had given life ! 

(I myself loved once, in my day). 

For a Shepherd's. Miner's, Huntsman's wife, 

(I had a wife, I know what I say), 

Xever in all the world such an one I 

And here was plenty to be done. 

And she that could do it. great or small. 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his post. 

This in his station, and that in his office. 

And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, 

To meet his eye, with the other trophies, 

Xow outside the Hall, now in it. 

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen. 

At the proper place in the proper minute. 

And die away the life between. 

And it was amusing enough, each infraction 

Of rule (but for after-sadness that came) — 

To hear the consummate self-satisfaction 

With which the young Duke and the old Dame 

Would let her advise and criticise. 

And, being a fool, instruct the wise. 

And, childlike, parcel out praise or blame : 

They bore it all in complacent guise, 

As tho' an artificer, after contriving 

A wheel- work image as if it were living. 



444 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Should find with delight it could motion to strike 

him ! 
So found the Duke, and his mother like him, — 
The Lady hardly got a rebuff — 
That had not been contemptuous enough, 
With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, 
And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. 

IX. 

So, the little Lady grew silent and thin, 

Paling and ever paling. 
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 

And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, 
And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to spite me. 
But I shall find in my power to right me ! " 
Don't swear, friend — the Old One, many a year, 
Is in Hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. 

X. 

Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, 
When the stag had to break with his foot, of a 

morning 
A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice 
That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice. 
Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold. 
And another and another, and faster and faster, 
Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled: 
Then it so chanced that the Duke our master 
Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, 
And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, 
He should do the Middle Age no treason 
In resolving on a hunting-party. 
Always provided, old books showed the way of 

it! 
What meant old poets by their strictures? 
And when old poets had said their say of it, 
How taught old painters in their pictures ? 
We must revert to the proper channels. 
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels. 
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: 
Here was food for our various ambitions. 
As on each cjiije, exactly stated, 
— To encourage your dog, now, the properest chir- 

rui), 
Or best i)rayer to St. Hubert on mounting your 

stirrup — 
We of the household took thought and debated. 
Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 
His sire was w(tnt to do forest-work in ; 



Blesseder he who nobly sunk " ohs " 

And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's 

trunkhose ; 
What signified hats if they had no rims on. 
Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, 
And able to serve at sea for a shallop, 
Loaded with laquer and looped with crimson ? 
So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't, 
What with our Venerers, Prickers, and Verderers, 
Might hope for real hunters at length, and not 

murderers. 
And oh, the Duke's tailor — he had a hot time on't ! 

XI. 

Now you must know, that when the first dizziness 
Of flap-hats and buff-coats and Jackboots subsided, 
The Duke put this question, '* The Duke's part 

provided. 
Had not the Duchess some share in the business?" 
For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses, 
Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses : 
And, after much laying of heads together, 
Somebody's cap got a notable feather 
By the announcement with proper unction 
That he had discovered the Lady's function ; 
Since ancient authors held this tenet. 
*' When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, 
Let the dame of the Castle prick forth on her jennet, 
And with water to wash the hands of her liege 
In a clean ewer with a fair towelling. 
Let her preside at the disembowelling." 
Now, my friend, if you had so little religion 
As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner. 
And thrust her broad wings like a banner 
Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon : 
And if day by day, and week by week, 
You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes. 
And clipped her winij^s. and tied her beak, 
Would it cause you any great surprise 
If when you decided to give her an airing 
You found she needed a little preparing? 
— I say, should you be such a curmudgeon. 
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? 
Yet when the Dnke to his Lady signified. 
Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, 
In what a pleasure she was to participate, — 
And, instead of leaping wide in flashes. 
Her eyes just lifted their hmg lashes. 
As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



445 



And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought, 
But spoke of her health, if her health were worth 

aught, 
Of the weight by day and the watch by nighty 
And much wrong now that used to be right,. 
So, thanking him, declined the hunting, — 
Was conduct ever more affronting ? 
With all the ceremony settled — 
With the towel ready, and the sewer 
Polishing up his oldest ewer, 
And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald. 
Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled, — 
Xo wonder if the Duke was nettled ! 
And when she persisted neveithelesSy — 
Well, I suppose here 's the time to confess 
That there ran half round our Lady's chamber 
A balcony none of the hardest to clamber ; 
And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in wait- 
in o* 
Stayed in call outside, what need of relating ? 
And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a 

fervent 
Adorer of Jacynth. of course, was your servant ; 
And if she had the habit to peep through the case- 
ment, 
How could I keep at any vast distance ? 
And so, as I say, on the Lady's persistence, 
The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement, 
Stood for a while in a sultry smother, 
And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, 
Turned her over to his yellow mother 
To leam what was decorous and lawful ; 
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like in- 
stinct. 
As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince- 

tinct — 
Oh, but the Lady heard the whole truth at once I 
What meant she ? — Who was she ? — Her duty and 

station. 
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at 

once, 
Its decent regard and its fitting relation — 
In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free 
And turn them out to carouse in a belfr}% 
And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, 
And then you may guess how that tongue of hers 

ran on ! 
Well, somehow or other it ended at last 
And, licking her whiskers, out she passed ; 



And after her, — making (he hoped) a face 
Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, 
Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace 
Of ancient hero or modem paladin, — 
From doors to staircase — oh. such a solemn 
Unbending of the vertebral column I 

XII. 

However, at sunrise our company mustered. 

And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, 

And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, 

With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel : 

For the court-yard's fonr walls were filled with fog 

You might cut as an axe chops a log. 

Like so much wool for color and bulkiness ; 

And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, 

Since before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, 

And a sinking at the lower abdomen 

Begins the day with indifferent omen : 

And lo, as he looked around uneasily. 

The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder 

This way and that from the valley under ; 

And, looking thro' the court -yard arch. 

Down in the valley, what should meet him 

But a troop of Gypsies on their march. 

No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him f 

XIII. 

Now, in your land, Gypsies reach you, only 

After reaching all lands beside; 

North they go, south they go, trooping or lonely, 

And still, as they travel far and wide, 

Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, 

That puts you in mind of a place here, a place 

there : 
Bat with us, I believe they rise out of the ground. 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned ; 
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed on : 
For the earth. — not a use to which they don't turn 

it. 
The ore that grows in the mountain's womb. 
Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, 
They sift and soften it. bake it and bum it — 
Whether they weld you. for instance, a snatfle 
With side-bars never a bnite can baffle : 
Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards ; 
Or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards, 



446 



FOEJIS OF COMFDY. 



Horseshoes they'll hammer which turn on a swivel 
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel ; 
Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle. 
That keep a stout heart in the ram with their 

tinkle ; 
But the sand — they pinch and pound it like otters : 
Commend me to Grypsy glass-makers and potters I 
Glasses they'll blow you. crystal-clear. 
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear. 
As if in pure water you dropped and let die 
A bruised black-blooded mulberry; 
And that other sort, their crowning pride, 
With long white threads distinct inside. 
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle 
Loose such a length and never tangle, 
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters. 
And the cup-lily couches with all the white daugh- 
ters — 
Such are the works they put their hand to. 
And the uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 
And these made the troop which our Duke saw 

sally 
Toward his castle from out of the valley, 
Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, 
Come out with the morning to greet our riders : 
And up they wound till they reached the ditch, 
Whereat all stopped save one. a witch. 
That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, 
By her gait, directly, and her stoop, 
1, whom Jacynth was used to importune 
To let that same witch tell us our fortune. 
The oldest Gypsy then above ground : 
And, so sure as the autumn season came round, 
She paid us a visit for profit or pastime, 
And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 
And presently she was seen to sidle 
Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle, 
So that the horse of a sudden reared up 
As under its nose the old witch j^eered up 
With her worn-out eyes or rather eye-holes 
Of no use now but to gather brine, 
And began a kind of level whine 
Such as thev used to sing to their viols 
When their ditties they go grinding 
Up and down with nolxxly minding: 
And, then as of old. at the end of the humming, 
Her usual presents were forthcoming 
— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, 
(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) 



Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end, — 
And so she awaited her annual stipend. 
But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe 
A word in reply : and in vain she felt 
With twitching fingers at her belt 
For the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, 
Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe, — 
Till, either to quicken his apprehension. 
Or possibly with an after-intention. 
She was come, she said, to pay her duty 
To the new Duchess, the youthful l^eauty. 
Xo sooner had she named his Lady. 
Than a shine lit up the face so shady, 
And its smirk returned with a novel meaning — 
For it struck him the babe just wanted weaning; 
If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 
She. foolish to-day. would Ix? wiser to-morrow : 
And who so fit a teacher of trouble 
As this sordid crone bent wellnigh double ? 
So. glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, 
(If such it was. for they grow so hirsute 
That their own fleece serves for natural fur suit) 
He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, 
The life of the Lady so flower-like and delicate 
With the loathsome squalor of this helicate. 
I. in brief, was the man the Duke l^eckoned 
From out of the throng, and while I drew near 
He told the crone, as I since have reckoned 
By the way he bent and spoke into her ear 
With circumspection and mystery, 
The main of the Lady's history, 
Her frowardness and ingratitude; 
And for all the crone's submissive attitude 
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tight- 
ening. 
And her brow with assenting intelligence bright- 
ening. 
As tho' she engaged with hearty good-will 
Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil. 
And promised the ladv a thorough frightening. 
And so. just giving her a glimpse 
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps 
The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hem- 

shaw. 
He bade me take the Gypsy mother 
And set her telling some story or other 
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or femshaw, 
To while away a weary hour 
For the Lady left alone in her bower. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



44- 



Whose mind and body craved exertion 
And yet shrank from all better diversion. 

XIV. 

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curvetter, 
Ont rode the Duke, and alter his hollo 
Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, 
And back I turned and bade the crone follow, 
And what makes me confident what 's to be told 

you 
Had all along been of this crone's devising, 
Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you. 
There was a novelty quick as surprising : 
For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, 
And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered. 
As if age had foregone its usurpature, 
And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, 
And the face looked quite of another nature, 
And the change reached too, whatever the change 

meant. 
Her shaggy wolf -skin cloak's arrangement, 
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges. 
Gold coins are glittering on the edges. 
Like the band-roll strung with tomans 
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's : 
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly 
Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 
Live and aware looked out of theii* places. 
So we went and found Jacynth at the entry 
Of the Lady's chamber standing sentry ; 
I told the command and produced my companion. 
And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one. 
For since last night, by the same token, 
Xot a single word had the Lady spoken : 
So they went in both to the presence together, 
Wliile I in the balcony watched the weather. 

XV. 

And now. what took place at the very first of all, 

I cannot tell, as I never could learn it : 

Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall 

On that little head of hers and burn it. 

If she knew how she came to drop so soundly 

Asleep of a sudden and there continue 

The whole time sleeping as profoundly 

As one of the boars my father would pin you 

'Twixt the eyes where the life holds garrison, 

— JacjTith forgive me the comparison ! 



But where I begin my own narration 

Is a little after I took my station 

To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, 

And, having in those days a falcon eye, 

To follow the hunt through the open country, 

From where the bushes thinlier crested 

The hillocks, to a plain where 's not one tree : — 

W"hen, in a moment, my ear was arrested 

By — was it singing, or was it saying, 

Or a strange musical mstniment playing 

In the chamber ? — and to be certain 

I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, 

And there lay Jacynth asleep, 

Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, 

In a rosy sleep along the floor 

With her head against the door ; 

While in the midst, on the seat of state, 

Like a queen the Gypsy woman sate. 

With head and face downbent 

On the Lady's head and face intent, 

For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, 

The Lady sate between her knees, 

And o'er them the Lady's clasped hands met, 

And on those hands her chin was set. 

And her upturned face met the face of the crone 

Wherein the eyes had grown and grown 

As if she could double and quadruple 

At pleasure the play of either pupil 

— Very like by her hands slow fanning, 
As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers 
They moved to measure like bell-clappers 

— I said, is it blessing, is it banning. 
Do they applaud you or burlesque you ? 
Those hands and fingers with no flesh on ? 
Wlien, just as I thought to spring in to the res- 
cue, 

At once I was stopped by the Lady"s expression : 

For it was life her eyes were drinking 

From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, 

Life's pure fire received without shrinking. 

Into the heart and breast whose heaving 

Told you no single drop they were leaving — 

Life, that filling her, past redundant 

Into her very hair, back swerving 

Over each shoulder, loose and abundant. 

As her head thrown back showed the white throat 

curving, 
And the very tresses shared in the pleasure. 
Moving to the mystic measure, 



448 P0E3IS OF C02IEDY, 


Bounding as the bosom bounded. 


Thou shalt victoriously endure, 


I stopped short, more and more confounded, 


If that brow is true and those eyes are sure ; 


As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, 


Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay 


As she listened and she listened, — 


Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb, — 


When all at once a hand detained me, 


Let once the vindicating ray 


And the selfsame contagion gained me, 


Leap out amid the anxious gloom, 


And I kept time to the wondrous chime, 


And steel and fire have done their part, 


Making out words and prose and rhyme, 


And the prize falls on its finder's heart ; 


Till it seemed that the music furled 


So, trial after trial past. 


Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 


Wilt thou fall at the very last 


From under the words it first had propped. 


Breathless, half in trance 


And left them midway in the world. 


With the thrill of the great deliverance, 


And word took word as hand takes hand, 


Into our arms for evermore ; 


I could hear at last, and understand, 


And thou shalt know, those arm.s once curled 


And when I held the unbroken thread, 


About thee, what we knew before, 


The Gypsy said : — 


How love is the only good in the world. 


" And so at last we find my tribe, 


Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 


And so 1 set thee in the midst. 


Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 


And to one and all of them describe 


Stand up, look below, 


What thou saidst and what thou didst^ 


It is our life at thy feet we throw 


Our long and terrible journey thro', 


To step with into light and joy ; 


And all thou art ready to say and do 


Xot a power of life but we'll employ 


In the trials that remain : 


To satisfy thy nature's want ; 


I trace them the vein and the other rein 


Art thou the tree that props the plant. 


That meet on thy brow and part again, 


Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree — 


Making our rapid mystic mark ; 


Canst thou help us, must we help thee? 


And I bid my people prove and probe 


If any two creatures grew into one. 


Each eye's profound and glorious globe 


They would do more than the world has 


Till they detect the kindred spark 


done ; 


In tliose depths so dear and dark, 


Tho' each apart were never so weak. 


Like the spots that snap, and burst, and flee, 


Yet vainly thro' the world should ye seek 


Circling over the midnight sea. 


For the knowledge and the might 


■ And on that young round cheek of thine 


Which in such union grew their right : 


I make them recognize the tinge, 


So, to approach, at least, that end, 


As when of the costly scarlet wine 


And blend,— as much as may be, blend 


They drip so much as will impinge 


Thee with us, or us with thee. 


And spread in a thinnest scale afloat 


As climbing-plant or propping-tree, 


One thick gold drop from the olive's coat 


Shall some one deck thee, over and down, 


Over a silver plate whose sheen 


Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? 


Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. 


Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland crown, 


For, so I prove thee, to one and all. 


Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, 


Fit, when my people ope their breast. 


Die on thy boughs and disappear 


To see the sign, and hear the call, 


While not a leaf of thine is sere ? 


And take the vow, and stand the test 


Or is the other fate in store, 


Which adds one more child to the rest — 


And art thou fitted to adore. 


When the breast is bare and the arms are wide. 


To give thy wondrous self away. 


And the world is left outside. 


And take a stronger nature's sway ? 


For there is probation to decree, 


I foresee and I could foretell 


And many and long must the trials be 


Thy future portion, sure and well — 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 449 


But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, 


To paper and put you down every syllable. 


And let them say what thou shalt do ! 


With those clever clerkly fingers, 


Only, be sure thy daily life, 


All that I've forgotten as well as what lingers 


In its peace, or in its strife, 


In this old brain of mine that 's but ill able 


Never shall be unobserved ; 


To give you even this poor version 


We pursue thy whole career, 


Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering 


And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, — 


— More fault of those who had the hammering 


Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved. 


Of prosody into me, and syntax. 


We are beside thee, in all thy ways, 


And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks ! 


With our blame, with our praise. 


But to return from this excursion — 


Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 


Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, 


Glad, sorry — but indifferent, no I 


The peace most deep, and the charm completest. 


Whether it is thy lot to go, 


There came, shall I say a snap — 


For the good of us all, where the haters meet 


And the charm vanished ! 


In the crowded city's horrible street ; 


And my sense returned, so strangely banished, 


Or thou step alone thro' the morass 


And, starting as from a nap. 


Where never sound yet was 


I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, 


Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, 


With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made 1, 


For the air is still, and the water still. 


Down from the casement, round to the portal, 


When the blue breast of the dipping coot 


Another minute and I had entered, 


Dives under, and all again is mute. 


When the door opened, and more than mortal 


So at the last shall come old age, 


Stood, with a face where to my mind centred 


Decrepit, as befits that stage ; 


All beauties I ever saw or shall see. 


How else wouldst thou retire apart 


The Duchess — I stopped as if struck by palsy. 


With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 


She was so different, happy and beautiful. 


And gather aU to the very least 


I felt at once that all was best, 


Of the fragments of life's earlier feast. 


And that I had nothing to do, for the rest. 


Let fall through eagerness to find 


But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 


The crowning dainties yet behind? 


Xot that, in fact, there was any commanding, 


Ponder on the entire past 


— 1 saw the glory of her eye. 


Laid together thus at last, 


And the brows' height and the breast's expanding, 


When the twilight helps to fuse 


And I was hers to live or to die. 


The first fresh, with the faded hues, 


As for finding what she wanted. 


And the outline of the whole, 


You know God Almighty granted 


As round eve's shades their framework roll, 


Such little signs should serve his wild creatures 


Grandly fronts for once thy soul : 


To tell one another all tlieir desires, 


And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 


So that each knows what its friend reqidres, 


Of yet another morning breaks, 


And does its bidding without teachers. 


And like the hand which ends a dream, 


I preceded her ; the crone 


Death, with the might of his sunbeam 


Followed silent and alone ; 


Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes, 


I spoke to her. but she merely jabbered 


Then — ' 


In the old style : both her eyes had slunk 


Ay, then, indeed, something would hap- 


Back to their pits : her stature shrunk ; 


pen ! 


In short, the soul in its body sunk 


But what? For here her voice changed like a 


Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. 


bird's ; 


We descended. I preceding : 


There grew more of the music and less of the 


Crossed the court with nobody heeding ; 


words ; 


All the world was at the chase, 


Had Jax3ynth only been by me to clap pen 


The court-yard like a desert-place. 



450 



P0E3IS OF C03IEDY. 



The stable emptied of its small fry ; 
I saddled myself the very palfrey 
I remember patting while it carried her, 
The day she arrived and the Duke married her. 
And, do you know, though it 's easy deceiving 
Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing 
The Lady had not forgotten it either, 
And knew the poor devil so much beneath her 
Would have been only too glad for her service 
To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, 
But unable to pay proper duty where owing it 
Was reduced to that pitiful method of show- 
ing it : 
For though the moment I began setting 
His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, 
(Xot that I meant to be obtrusive) 
She stopped me, while his rug was shifting. 
By a single rapid finger's lifting. 
And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, 
And a little shake of the head, refused me, — 
I say, although she never used me. 
Yet when she was mounted, the Gypsy behind 

her, 
And I ventured to remind her, 
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness 
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, 
— Something to the efEect that I was in readiness 
Whenever God should please she needed me, — 
Then, do you know, her face looked down on me 
With a look that placed a crown on me. 
And she felt in her bosom, — mark, her bosom — 
And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, 
Dropped me — ah, had it been a purse 
Of silver, my friend, or gold that 's worse, 
Why, you see, as soon as I found myself 
So understood, — that a true heart so may gain 
Such a reward, — I should have gone home again, 
Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself ! 
It was a little plait of hair 
Such as friends in a convent make 
To wear, each for the other's sake, — 
This, see, which at my breast I wear. 
Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), 
And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. 
And then, — and then, — to cut short, — this is 

idle, 
These are feelings it is not good to foster, — 
I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, 
And the palfrey bounded, — and so we lost her ! 



XVI. 

• 
T\Tien the liquor 's out, why clink the cannakin ? 
I did think to describe you the panic in 
The redoubtable breast of our master the manikin, 
And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, 
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib 
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, 
When she heard, what she called, the flight of the 

feloness — 
But it seems such child's play 
What they said and did with the Lady away ! 
And to dance on, when we've los,t the music. 
Always made me — and no doubt makes you — sick. 
Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern 
As that swset form disappeared thro' the postern. 
She that kept it in constant good-humor. 
It ought to have stopped ; there seemed nothing to 

do more. 
But the world thought otherwise and went on, 
And my head's one that its spite was spent on : 
Thirty years are fled since that morning, 
And with them all my head's adorning. 
Nor did the old Duchess die outright, 
As you expect, of suppressed spite, 
The natural end of every adder 
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder : 
But she and her son agreed, I take it. 
That no one should touch on the story to wake it, 
For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery, 
So they made no search and small inquiry — 
And when fresh Gypsies have paid us a visit, I've 
Noticed the couple were never inquisitive. 
But told them they're folks the Duke don't want 

here. 
And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. 
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was 

glad of it. 
And the old one was in the young one's stead. 
And took, in her place, the houshold's head. 
And a blessed time the household had of it ! 
And were I not, as a man may say, cautious 
How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, 
I could favor you with sundry touches 
Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess 
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness 
(To get on faster) until at last her 
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 
Of mucus and fucus from mere use of cenise 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



451 



Till in short she grew from scalp to udder 
Just the object to make you shudder ! 

XVII. 

You 're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world without end ! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up, 

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet. 

And poured out all lovelily, sparkling, and sunlit. 

Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, 

Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids — 

Friendship 's as good as that monarch of fluids 

To supply a dry brain, fill you its ins-and-outs, — 

Gives your Life's hour-glass a shake when the thin 

sand doubts 
"Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees 
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease! 
I have seen my little Lady once more, 
Jacynth, the Gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it. 
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before ; 
I always wanted to make a clean breast of it, 
And now it is made — why, my heart's-blood, that 

went trickle, 
Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets. 
Is pumped up brisk now, thro' the main ventricle. 
And genially floats me about the giblets ! 
I'll tell you what I intend to do : 
I must see this fellow his sad life thro' 
— He is our Duke after all, 
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall ; 
My father was born here, and I inherit 
His fame, a chain he bound his son with — 
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, 
But there's no mine to blow up and get done 

with. 
So I must stay till the end of the chapter : 
For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter. 
Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on. 
One day or other, his head in a morion, 
And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up. 
Slain by some onslaught fierce of hiccup. 
And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke 

rust, 
And its leathern sheath lies o'ergrown with a blue 

crust, 
Then, T shall scrape together my earnings; 
For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes. 
And our children all went the way of the roses — 
It's a long lane that knows no turnings — 



One needs but little tackle to travel in. 

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue, 

And for a staff, what beats the javelin 

With which his boars my father pinned you ? 

And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, 

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinfull, 

I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly? 

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 

What 's a man's age ? He must hurry more, that 's 

all; 
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to 

hold ; 
When we mind labor, then only, we're too old — 
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul ? 
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees. 
(Come all the way from the north-parts with spenn 

oil) 
I shall get safely out of the turmoil 
And arrive one da}^ at the land of the Gypsies 
And find my Lady, or hear the last news of her 
From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 
His forehead chapletted green with wreathy hop, 
Sunburned all over like an ^thiop : 
And when my Cotnar begins to operate 
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper 

rate, 
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid 

dent, 
I shall drop in with — as if by accident — 
" You never knew, then, how it all ended, 
What fortunes good or bad attended 
The little Lady your Queen befriended ? " 

— And when that 's told me, what 's remaining I 
This world 's too hard for my explaining — 
The same wise judge of matters equine 

Who still preferred some slim four-year-old 

To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, 

And for strong Cotnar drank French weak wine, 

He also must be such a Lady's scorner I 

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau, 

Now up, now down, the world 's one see-saw ! 

— So, I shall find out some snug corner 
Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight. 
Turn myself round and bid the world good-night ; 
And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing 
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) 

To a world where 's to be no further throwing 
Pearls before sAvine that can't value them. Amen ! 

Egbert Browkino. 



453 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


iTlic Dincrting ijistorp of Joljn (5ilpin, 

showixct how he went farther thax he LS'TEXD- 

ED. AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAEN*. 


So three doors off the chaise was staved 
Where they did all get in — 

Six precious souls, and all agog 
To dash through thick and thin. 




JoHx Gilpin was a citizen 
Of credit and renown ; 

A trainband captain eke was he. 
Of famous London town. 


Smack went the whip, round went the wheels — 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 




John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 
" Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
Xo holiday have seen. 


John Gilpin at his horse's side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride — 
But soon came down asrain: 




*• To-moiTow is our wedding-day, 
And we will then repair 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
All in a chaise and pair. 


For saddletree scarce reached had he, 

His journey to begin. 
\N hen. turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 




•' 3Iy sister, and my sisters child, 
Myself, and children three. 

Will fill the chaise: so you must ride 
On horseback after we." 


So down he came : for loss of time, 
Althousrh it grieved him sore. 

Yet loss of pence. fuU weU he knew, 
Would trouble him much more. 




He soon replied. "I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she, my dearest dear; 

Therefore it shall be done. 


'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind : 
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs — 

'• The wine is left behind I "' 




" I am a linendraper bold. 

As all the world doth know : 
And my good friend, the calender, 

Will lend his hoi'se to go." 


" Good lack I " cj^uoth he — " yet bring it me. 

My leathern holt likewise. 
In which I wear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 




Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, '^That 's well said; 

And. for that wine is dear. 
We will be furnished with our own. 

■ 

Which is both bright and clear.*' 


Xow Mistress Gilpin (careful soul ! ) 
Had two stone Iwttles found. 

To hold the licpior that she loved. 
And keep it safe and sound. 




John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 

O'erjoyed was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 


Each lx)ttle had a curling ear. 

Through which the l^elt he drew, 
And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 




The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 


Then over all. that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 

He manfuUv did throw. 

• 





——— r 

tb:i: divertixg history of joex chlpix. 453 


Xow see him nioTinred onr-e ngain 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With, caution and good heed. 


A nd still as fast as he drew near, 
'Twas wonderful to view 

How in a trice the turnpike men 
Their gates wide open threw. 


But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 
VSTiicli galled him in Ms seat. 


And now. as he went bowing down 
His reekins: head full low. 

TTie bottles iNsain ttehind his back 
Were shattered at a blow. 


So. •• Fair and softly." John he cried. 
But John he cried in vain : 

That trot l^ecame a gallop soon. 
In spite of curb and rein. 


Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted l^een. 


So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright. 
He gi-asped the mane with both his hands. 

And eke with all his might. 


But still he seemed to carry weight, 
With leathern gii'dle brac-ed ; 

For all might see the lx)ttle necks 
Still dangrliuof at his waist. 


His horse, who never in that sort 
Had handled Ix-en before. 

\^ hat thing upon his back had got 
Did wonder more and more. 


Thus all through merrr Islington 
These gambols did he play. 

Until he came unto the ^Vash 
Of Edmonton so gay ; 


Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 

Away went hat and wig : 
He little dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 


And there he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way. 

Just like nnto a trundling mop, 
Or a wild goose at play. 


The wind did blow — the cloak did fly. 
Like streamer long and gay : 

Till, loop and button failing l^oth. 
At last it flew away. 


At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 


Then mi^ht all people well discern 
The bottles he had slimg — 

A bottle swinging at each side, 
As hath been said or sung. 


" Stop. stop. John Gilpin I here 's the house," 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired : " 

Said Gilpin — ** So am 1 1 " 


The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 

Up flew the windows all : 
And cTery soul cried out. " Well done ! " 

As loud as he could bawl. 


But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to taiTy there : 
For why ? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off. at Ware. 


Away went Gilpin — who but he? 

His fame soon spread aroimd — 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound ! " 


So like an arrow swift he flew. 
Shot by an archer strong : 

So did he fly — which brings me to 
The middle of my song. 



454 POEJIS OF COMEDY. 


Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
And sore against his will, 

TUl at his friend the calenders 
His horse at last stood still. 


So, turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine : 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here — 

You shall go back for mine." 


The calender, amazed to see 
His neighbor in such trim, 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 
And thus accosted him : 


Ah, luckless speech, and lx)otless boast. 
For which he paid full dear ! 

For, while he spake, a bracing ass 
Did sing most loud and clear ; 


" \N hat news ? what ncAvs ? your tidings tell ; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? " 


Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 


Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit. 
And loved a timely joke ; 

And thus unto the calender 
In merry guise he spoke : 


Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 

He lost them sooner than at first, 
For why ? — they were too big. 


'• I came because your horse would come ; 

And. if I well forebode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road."' 


Xow Mistress Gilpin, when sli^.'saw 
Her husband posting down 

Into the country far away. 
She pulled out hcilf a crown ; 


The calender, right glad to find 
His friend in merry pin, 

Returned him not a single word, 
But to the house went in : 


And thus unto the youth she said, 

That drove them to the Bell. 
*' This shall be yours when you bring ))ack 

My husband safe and well." 


Whence straight he came with hat and wig : 

A wig that flowed behind. 
A hat not much the woi-se for wear — 

Each comely in its kind. 


The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
John coming back amain — 

Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 
By catching at his rein ; 


He held them up. and in his turn 
Thus showed his ready Avit — 

'' My head is twic-e as big as yours, 
They therefore needs must fit. 


But not performing what be meant. 
And gladly would have done. 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 
And made him faster run. 


" But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat. for well you may 
Be in a hungry case." 


Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels. 
The post-boy's hoi*se right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 


Said John. '• It is my wedding day, 
And all the world would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware." 


Six gentlemen upon the road. 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

Thev raised the hue and err : 

• • 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX. 



455 



" Stop thief ! stop thief I — a highwayman ! " 

Xot one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The toll-men thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the king ! 

And Grilpin, long lire he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad. 

May I be there to see ! 

WHXIAM COWPEK. 



toillie^s bisit ta iHelrille Olastle. 

Willie 's gane to Melville Castle, 

Boots and spurs and a', 
To bid the ladies a' farewell. 

Before he gaed awa'. 

The first he met was Lady Bet, 
Who led him through the ha'. 

And with a sad and sorry heart 
She let the tears doon fa'. 

Near the fire stood Lady Grace, 

Said ne'er a word ava ; 
She thought that she was sure of him 

Before he gaed awa'. 

The next he saw was Lady Kate ; 

'' Guid troth, ye needna craw, 
Maybe the lad will fancy me. 

And disappoint ye a'." 

Then down the stair skipped Lady Jean, 

The flower among them a' ; 
Oh, lasses, trust in Providence, 

And ye'U get husbands a'. 



As on his steed he gaJloped off, 

They a' came to the door ; 
He gayly raised his feathered plume ; 

They set up sic a roar ! 

Their sighs, their cries, brought Willie back, 

He kissed them ane and a' : 

" Oh, lasses, bide till I come hame. 

And then I'll wed ye a' ! " 

Anonymous. 



^n Q^legw on t\)c ©brg of l)cr Sc^, 
ittrs. iHarw Blaise. 

Good people all, with one accord 

Lament for Madame Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom passed her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behmd. 

She strove the neighborhood to please. 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never followed wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumbered in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has followed her — 

When she has walked before. 

But now. her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all ; 

The doctors found, when she was dead — 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore. 
For Kent Street well may say. 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more, 
She had not died to-day. 

Olivek Goldsmith. 



456 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



iUaesacre oi X\\z iHacpljerson. 

Fhaieshox swore a feud 

Against the clan M'Tavish — 
Marched into their land 

To murder and to rafish ; 
For he did resolve 

To extirpate the vipers, 
With four-and-twentj men. 

And five-and-thirty pipers. 

But when he had gone 

Half-way do\vn Strath-Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 

Just three were remainin'. 
They were all he had 

To back him in ta battle ; 
All the rest had gone 

Off to drive ta cattle. 

" Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon — 

" So my clan disgraced is ; 
Lads, we'll need to fight 

Pefore we touch ta peasties. 
Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Coming wi' his fassals — 
Gillies seventy-three, 

And sixty Dhuinewassels ! " 

" Coot tay to you, sir ! 

Are you not ta Fhairshon ? 
Was you coming here 

To visit any person ? 
You are a plackguard, sir ! 

It is now six hundred 
Coot long years, and more, 

Since my glen was plundered." 

" Fat is tat you say ? 

Dar you cock your peaver ? 
I will teach you, sir, 

Fat is coot pehaviour I 
You shall not exist 

For another day more ; 
I will shot you, sir, 

Or stap you with my claymore ! " 

" I am fery glad 

To learn what you mention. 



Since I can prevent 

Any such intention." 
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave some warlike howls, 
Trew his skhian-dhu. 

An' stuck it in his powels. 

In this fery way 

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 
Who was always thought 

A superior person. 
Fhairshon had a son. 

Who married Noah's daughter. 
And nearly spoiled ta flood 

By trinking up ta water. 

Which he would have done, 

I at least believe it. 
Had ta mixture peen 

Only half Glenlivet. 
This is all my tale : 

Sirs, 1 hope 'tis new t' ye ! 
Here 's your fery good healths. 

And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 

WiLLIAH EdMONDSTOUNE AtTOUN. 



Sir SibncT) Smitli. 

Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme, 
But the song I now trouble you with. 

Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, 
because 
The subject 's Sir Sidney Smith, it is ; 
The subject 's Sir Sidney Smith. 

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney. 

He'd fight every foe he could meet ; 
Give him one ship for two, and without more ado. 

He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would, 

He'd engage if he met a whole fleet. 

Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way. 

Till fortune, that changeable elf. 
Ordered accidents so, that while taking the foe, 

Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did. 

Sir Sidney got taken himself. 



TAM 0' SEAXTER. 457 


His captors, right glad of the prize they now had, 


VV e there, in strife bewildering, 


Rejected each offer we bid. 


Spilt blood enough to swim in : 


And swore he should stay locked up till doomsday ; 


We orphaned many children. 


But he swore he'd be d d if he did, he did ; 


And widowed many women. 


But he swore he'd be hanged if he did. 


The eagles and the raA'ens 




We glutted with our foemen : 


So Sir Sid got away, and his jailer next day 


The heroes and the crayens. 


Cried, " Sacre, diable, morbleu, 


The spearmen and the bowmen. 


Mon prisonnier 'scape ; I 'ave got in von scrape, 




And I fear I must run away too, I must, 


We brought away from battle. 


I fear I must run away too ! " 


And much their land bemoaned them, 




Two thousand head of cattle, 


If Sir Sidney was wrong, why then blackball my 


And the head of him who owned them : 


song. 


Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 


E'en his foes he would scorn to deceiye ; 


His head was borne before us ; 


His escape was but just, and confess it you must. 


His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, 


For it only was taking French leaye, you know, 


And his oyerthrow our chorus. 


It only was taking French leaye. 


Thomas Love Peacock. 


ChAI!I.ES DiBDrN'. 




(^1)0 toar-S0ng of Dinas bamr. 


^avx o' Sl)anter. 




Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 


The mountain sheep are sweeter. 


Gawin Douglas. 


But the yalley sheep are fatter ; 




We therefore deemed it meeter 


When chapman billies leave the street, 


To carry off the latter. 


And drouthy neebors neebors meet. 


We made an expedition ; 


As market-days are wearing late, 


We met an host and quelled it : 


An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 


We forced a strong position, 


While we sit bousing at the nappy, 


And killed the men who held it. 


An' getting fou and unco happy. 




We think na on the lang Scots miles, 


On D^-fed's richest yalley, 


The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 


Where herds of kine were browsing, 


That lie between us and our hame. 


We made a mighty sally. 


VVhare sits our sulky, sullen dame. 


To fui'nish our carousing. 


Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 


Fierce warriors rushed to meet us : 


Xursing her wrath to keep it warm. 


We met them, and o'erthrew them : 


This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 


They struggled hard to beat us ; 


As he, frae Ayr. ae night did canter. 


But we conquered them, and slew them. 


(Auld Ayr, wham ne er a town surpasses. 




For honest men and bonnie lasses). 


As we droye our prize at leisure, 


Tam I hadst thou been but sae wise 


The king marched forth to catch us : 


As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 


His rage surpassed all measuce, 


She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 


But his people could not match us. 


A bleth'ring, blust'ring. drunken blellum ; 


He fled to his hall-pillars ; 


That frae Xovember till October, 


And, ere our force we led off, 


Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 


Some sacked his house and cellars, 


That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 


While others cut his head off. 


Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 



458 



P0E3IS OF C03IEDY. 



That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon. 
Thou ^yould be found deep drowned in Doon : 
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet. 
How monie lengthened sage adyices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tam had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank diyinely ; 
And at his elbow souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony — 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. ' 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 
And ay the ale was growing better ; 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victoi'ious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
A moment white, then melts for ever; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form. 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nac man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride — 
That hour o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he takes the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed; 
That night a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg), 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire — 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots son- 
net, 
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods : 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonished, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ; 
Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in tlieir heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the cast, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



459 



A to\v::ie tyke, black, grim, and large — 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof an' rafter a' did dirl. 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrips sleight, 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

By which heroic Tarn was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims : 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns ; 

A thief, new cutted fra a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife a father's throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 

Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout ; 

And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 

Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk : 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 

Which ev'n to name would be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowred. amazed, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleckit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark. 

iSTow Tam, Tam ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping in their teens : 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw- white seventeen-hunder linen ; 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hag wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock — 
I wonder did na turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' braw- 
lie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 



That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! 
For monie a beast to dead she shot, 
And perished monie a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn — 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vaunty. 
Ah \ little kenn'd thy reverend grannie 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) — 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cower. 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad she was and Strang) ; 
And how Tam stood, like one bewitched, 
And thought his very een enriched. 
Ev'n Satan glowred, and fidged fu' fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and main, 
Till first ae caper, syne anither — 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant a' was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied, 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When Catcli the thief ! resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs — the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou '11 get thy 
fairin' ! 
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss — 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ; 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 



460 



POEMS OF C02IEDY, 



And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 

Robert Burns 



Cologne 

In Koln, a town of monks and bones, 

And pavements fanged with murderous stones. 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches — 

I counted two and seventy stenches, 

All well defined and several stinks ! 

Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 

The river Rhine, it is well known, 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, nymphs ! what power divine 

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



®lie Dcoirs (2^l]ongl)ts. 

From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A walking the devil is gone. 
To visit his snug little farm, the earth. 

And see how his stock goes on. 

Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain ; 
And backward and forward he switched his long 
tail. 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 

And how then was the devil dresf? 

Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : 

His j{u.'ket was red and his breeches were blue, 

And there was a hole where the tail came through. 



He saw a lawyer killing a ^aper 

On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; 

And the devil smiled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother Abel. 

He saw an apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the devil thought of his old friend 

Death, in the Revelations. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ; 
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

He peeped into a rich booksellers shop — 
Quoth he, " We are both of one college I 

For 1 sate, myself, like a cormorant, once, 
Hard by the tree of knowledge." 

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 

A pig with vast celerity ; 
And the devil looked wise as he saw how, the wdiile, 
It cut its own throat. '• There ! " quoth he with a 
smile, 

" Goes England's commercial prosperity." 

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

A solitary cell ; 
And the devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in hell. 

He saw a turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
" Xiinbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 

If a man be but used to his trade." 

He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition ; 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the slave-trade abolition. 

He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed by a Methodist meeting ; 

She holds a consecrated key, 
And the devil nods her a greeting. 

She turned up her nose, and said, 
" Avaunt ! — my name 's Religion I " 

And she looked to Mr. , 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 



5: 



THE FRIEJSW OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 



461 



He saw a certain minister, 

A minister to his mind, 
Go up into a certain house, 

With a majority behind ; 

The devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How " Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the ark." 

He took from the poor. 

And he gave to the rich, 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the . 



* 



* 



-'s burning face 



General 

He saw with consternation. 
And back to hell his way did he take — 
For the devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was a general conflagration. 

SAaitnBii Taylor Coleridge. 



The hag is astride, 

This night for to ride — 
The devil and she together ; 

Through thick and through thin, 

Now out and then in, 
Though ne'er so foul be the weather. 

A thorn or a burr 

She takes for a spur \ 
With a lash of the bramble she rides now ; 

Through brakes and through briers, 

O'er ditches and mires, 
She follows the spirit that guides now. 

No beast, for his food. 

Dares now range the wood, 
But husht in his lair he lies lurking ; 

While mischiefs, by these, 

On land and on s?as. 
At noon of night are a-working. 

The storm will arise, 
And trouble the skies. 



This night ; and, more the wonder, 

The ghost from the tomb 

Affrighted shall come, 
Called out by the clap of the thunder. 

Robert Hereick. 



^[\z ftienb of ^Qnntanits axCb tl)e Knife- 
©rinber. 

FRIEND OF HUMAXITY. 

" Needy knife-gi-inder ! whither are you going ? 
Eough is the road ; your wheel is out of order. 
Bleak blows the blast : your hat has got a hole 
in't ; 

So have your breeches ! 

" Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, 
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day ' Knives 
and 

Scissors to grind O ! ' 

" Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind 

knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you I 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish *? 
Or the attorney f 

" Was it the squire for killing of his game f or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining 'i 
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

" (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom 

Paine?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 
Pitiful stor>\" 

KXIFE-GRIXDER. 

" Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
Tom in a scuffle. 

" Constables came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- 
Stocks for a vagrant. 



462 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



" 1 should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, sir." 



FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 

*' I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — 

Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to 

vengeance — 

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 

Spiritless outcast ! " 

\_Kicks the knife-gHnder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a 
transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan- 
thropy.} 

George Canning. 



Song 

OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON. 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 

This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 

1 think of those companions true 

Who studied with me at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 

niversity of Gottingen. 

{Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, zcifh which he wipes 
his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he jnoceeds :] 

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, 

Which once my love sat knotting in — 
Alas, INIatilda then was true ! 
At least I thought so at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 
[At (he repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.] 

Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew, 

Her neat post-wagon trotting in I 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn 1 languished at the U- 

ni versify of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 

This blood my veins is clotting in ! 
My years are many — they were few 
When first I entered at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 



There first for thee my passion grew, 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
tor, law-professor at the U- 

niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, 
That kings and priests are plotting in ; 
Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
el, never shall I see the U- 

ni.versity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen. 

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against 

the walls of his piison, and finally so hard as to produce a 

visible contusion. He then throics himself on the floor in 

an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to 

play till it is wholly fatten.] 

George Canning. 



Clam-Soup. 

First catch your clams: along the ebbing edges 
Of saline coves you'll find the precious wedges 
With backs up lurking in the sandy bottom; 
Pull in your iron rake, and lo I you 've got 'em. 
Take thirty large ones, put a basin under. 
And deftly cleave their stony jaws asunder. 
Add water (three quarts) to the native liquor, 
Bring to a boil (and, by the way, the quicker 
It boils the better, if you'd do it cutely), 
Now add the clams, chopped up and minced mi- 
nutely, 
Allow a longer boil of just three minutes, 
And while it bubbles, quickly stir within its 
Tunndtuous depths, where still the mollusks mutter, 
Four tablespoons of flour and four of butter, 
A pint of milk, some pepper to your notion. 
And clams need salting, although born of ocean. 
Remove from fire (if much boiled it will suffer — 
You'll find that India-rubber isn't tougher): 
After 'tis off add three fresh eggs, well beaten. 
Stir once more, and it 's ready to be eaten. 
Fruit of the wave ! Oh, dainty and delicious 1 
Food for the gods ! Ambrosia for Apicius ! 
Worthy to thrill the soul of sea-born Venus, 
Or titillate the palate of Silenus ! 

WiLLiAJi Andrews Crofput. 



THE ESSENCE OF OPERA. 



463 



^ Becdpt for Salab. 

To make this condiment your poet begs 
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs ; 
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, 
Smoothness and softness to the salad give ; 
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, 
And, half suspected, animate the whole ; 
Of mordent mustard add a single spoon, 
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon ; 
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault 
To add a double quantity of salt ; 
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, 
And twice with vinegar, procured from town ; 
And lastly o'er the flavored compound toss 
A magic soup9on of anchovy sauce. 
Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat I 
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat ; 
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl ; 
Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
" Fate cannot harm me, — 1 have dined to-day." 

Sydney Smith. 



S^l)e Essence of ODpera ; 

OR, ALMANZOR AND IMOGEN. 
A71 Opera, in Three Ads. 



SUBJECT OF THE OPERA. 

A brave young prince a young princess adores ; 
A combat kills him, but a god restores. 



PROLOGUE. 

A Musician. People, appear, approach, ad- 
vance ! 

To Smgers. 

You. that can sing, the chorus bear ! 

To Dancers. 

You that can turn your toes out, dance ! 
Let 's celebrate this faithful pair. 

ACT I. 

Imogen. My love ! 
Al:,ia:^zou. My soul ! 



Both. At length then we unite ! 

People, sing, dance, and show us your delight ! 
Chorus. Let 's sing, and dance, and show 'em 
our delight. 



ACT n. 



Imogen. O love ! 



{A noise of war. The prince appears, pursued by his ene- 
mies. Combat. The princess faints. The prince is mor- 
tally wounded,'] 

Almanzor. Alas 1 
Imogen. Ah, what I 

Almanzor. I die ! 

Imogen. Ah me 1 

People, sing, dance, and show your misery ! 
Chorus. Let 's sing, and dance, and show our 
misery. 

ACT m. 

{Pallas descends in a cloud to Almanzor and sjjeaJcs.'] 

Pallas. Almanzor, live I 
Imogen. Oh, bliss ! 

Almanzor. What do I see 1 

Trio. People, sing, dance, and hail this prodigy ! 
Chorus. Let's sing and dance, and hail this 
prodigy. 



Anontmous. (French.) 



Anonymous Translation. 



^2pocl)onbnacit0. 

By myself walking, 
To myself talking 
When as I ruminate 
On my untoward fate, 
Scarcely seem I 
Alone sufficiently. 
Black thoughts continually 
Crowding my privacy. 
They come unbidden, 
Like foes at a wedding, 
Thrusting their faces 
In better guests' places, 
Peevish and malcontent, 
Clownish, impertinent, 
Dashing the merriment : 
So, in like fashions, 
Dim cogitations 



- 

464 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


Follow and haunt me, 


Sorcerer I that mak'st us dote upon 


Striving to daunt me, 


Thy begrimed complexion. 


In my heart festering, 


And, for thy pernicious sake. 


In my ears whispering — 


More and greater oaths to break 


" Thy friends are treacherous, 


Than reclaimed lovers take 


Thy foes are dangerous. 


'Gainst women I Thou thy siege dost lay 


Thy dreams ominous." 


Much, too, in the female way, 




While thou suck'st the lab"ring breath 


Fierce anthropophagi, 


Faster than kisses, or than death. 


Spectres, diaboli — 




What scared St. Anthony — 


Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 


Hobgoblins, lemures. 


That our worst foes cannot find us, 


Dreams of antipodes ! 


And ill fortune, that would thwart us, 


Xight-riding incubi 


Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 


Troubling the fantasy, 


While each man, through thy height'ning 


All dire illusions 


steam, 


Causing confusions : 


Does like a smoking Etna seem ; 


Figments heretical, 


And all about us does express 


Scruples fantastical, 


(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 


Doubts diabolical ! 


A Sicilian fruitf ulness. 


Abaddon veseth me, 




Mahu perplexeth me ; 


Thou through such a mist dost show us 


Lucifer teareth me — 


That our best friends do not know us. 


Jesu ! Maria ! liberate tios ah his diris tenfa- 
tionibis Inimici. Charles Lamb. 


And, for those allowed features 
Due to reasonable creatures, 
Liken'st us to fell chimeras. 




Monsters — that who see us, fear us ; 




Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 


^ faxcmcii t0 (Tobacco. 


Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 


May the Babylonish curse 


Bacchus we know, and we allow 


Straight confound my stammering verse, 


His tipsy rites. But what art thou. 


If I can a passage see 


That but by reflex can'st shew 


In this word-perplexity, 


What his deity can do — 


Or a fit expression find, 


As the false Egyptian spell 


Or a language to my mind 


Aped the true Hel)rew miracle ? 


(Still the phrase is wide or scant), 


Some few vapors thou may'st raise, 


To take leave of thee, great plant ! 


The weak brain may serve to amaze ; 


Or in any terras relate 


But to the reins and nobler heart 


Half my love, or half my hate ; 


Can'st nor life nor heat impart. 


For I hate, yet love, thee so, 




That, whichever thing I shew, 


Brother of Bacchus, later born ! 


The plain truth will seem to be 


The old world was sure forlorn, 


A constrained hyperbole. 


Wanting thee, that aidest more 


And the passion to proceed 


The god's victories than, before, 


More for a mistress than a weed. 


All his panthers, and the brawls 




Of his piping Bacchanals. 


Sooty retainer to the vine ! 


These, as stale, we disallow. 


Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ! 


Or judge of thee meant : only thou 



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 



465 



32 



His true Indian conquest, art ; 
And, for ivy round his dart, 
The reformed god now weaves 
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 

Scent to match thy rich perfume 
Chemic art did ne'er presume — 
Through her quaint alembic strain, 
None so sovereign to the brain. 
Nature, that did in thee excel. 
Framed again no second smell. 
Roses, violets, but toys 
For the smaller sort of boys, 
Or for greener damsels meant ; 
Thou art the only manly scent. 

Stinkingest of the stinking kind ! 
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind ! 
Africa, that brags her foyson. 
Breeds no such prodigious poison ! 
Henbane, nightshade, both together, 
Hemlock, aconite 

Nay, rather, 
Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! 
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you ! 
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; 
None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; 
Irony all, and feigned abuse, 
Such as perplext lovers use 
At a need, when, in despair 
To paint forth their fairest fair, 
Or in part but to express 
That exceeding comeliness 
Which their fancies doth so strike, 
They borrow language of dislike ; 
And, instead of dearest Miss, 
Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss. 
And those forms of old admiring, 
Call her cockatrice and siren. 
Basilisk, and all that's evil, 
Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, 
Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor. 
Monkey, ape, and twenty more — 
Friendly trait'ress, loving foe — 
Not that she is truly so. 
But no other way they know, 
A contentment to express 
Borders so upon excess 



That they do not rightly wot 
Whether it be from pain or not. 

Or, as men, constrained to part 
With what 's nearest to their heart. 
While their sorrow 's at the height 
Lose discrimination quite. 
And their hasty wrath let fall, 
To appease their frantic gall. 
On the darling thing, whatever. 
Whence they feel it death to sever, 
Though it be, as they, perforce, 
Guiltless of the sad divorce. 

For I must (nor let it grieve thee. 
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. 
For thy sake, tobacco, I 
Would do anything but die. 
And but seek to extend my days 
Long enough to sing thy praise. 
But, as she who once hath been 
A king's consort, is a queen 
Ever after, nor will hate 
Any title of her state 
Though a widow, or divorced — 
So I, from thy converse forced. 
The old name and style retain, 
A right Catherine of Spain ; 
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
Of the blest tobacco boys ; 
Where though I, by sour physician, 
Am debarred the full fruition 
Of thy favors, I may catch 
Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
Sidelong odors, that give life 
Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 
And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
And in thy borders take delight, 
An unconquered Canaanite. 

Charles Lamb. 



-faitl)le0s K'clln C^rag. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
And used to war's alarms ; 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms. 



466 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


Xow as they bore him o£E the field, 
Said he. '• Let others shoot ; 

For here I leave my second leg. 
And the Forty-second foot." 


•■ I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death : — alas ! 

You will not be my Nell I " 


The array-surgeons made him limbs : 
Said he, " They 're only pegs ; 

But there 's as wooden memljers quite, 
As represent my legs." 


Now when he went from Nelly Gray 

His heart so hea-s-y got. 
And life was such a burden grown, 

It made him take a knot. 


Xow Ben he loved a pretty maid — 
Her name was Nelly Gray ; 

So he went to pay her his devours. 
When he devoured his pa}'. 


So round his melancholy neck 
A rope he did entwine. 

And, for his second time in life, 
Enlisted in the line. 


But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
She made him. quite a scoff ; 

And when she saw his wooden legs. 
Began to take them off. 


One end he tied around a beam, 
And then removed his pegs ; 

And, as his legs were off. — of course 
He soon was off his legs. 


" Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 

Is this your love so warm ? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more unifonu." 


And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town ; 
For. though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down. 


Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
For he was blithe and brave ; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave. 


A dozen men sat on his corpse. 

To find out why he died — 
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 

With a stake in his inside. 


" Before you had those timber toes 

Your love 1 did allow ; 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now." 


Thohas Hood. 

<faitlilcss Saliu Drotxju, 


« Nelly Gi-ay ! Nelly Gray ! 

For all your jeering speeches, 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's breaches." 


Young Bex he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade : 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

That was a lady's maid. 


" "VSTiy then," said she. " you 've lost the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms. 
And now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms." 


But as they fetched a walk one day, 
•They met a press-gang crew ; 

And Sally she did faint away, 
Whilst Ben he was brought to. 


" false and fickle Nelly Gray ! 

I know whv vou refuse ; 
Though I've no feet, some other man 

Is standing in my shoes. 


The boatswain swore with wicked words, 

Enough to shock a saint. 
That though she did seem in a fit, 

'Twas nothing but a feint. 



■^a vHH 


THE LADY AT SEA. 407 

1 




" Come, girl,'' said he, " hold up your head — 


" Sally Brown, Sally Brown, 




He'll be as good as me ; 


How could you serve me so ? 




For when your swain is in our boat 


I've met with manv a breeze before. 




A boatswain he will be." 


But never such a blow I " 




So when they'd made their game of her, 


Then reading on his 'baceo-box. 




And taken off her elf, 


He heaved a heavy sigh. 




She roused, and found she onlv was 


And then besran to eve his pipe, 




A-coming to herself. 


And then to pipe his eve. 




" And is he gone, and is he gone ? " 


And then he tried to sing •• All 's Well ! " 




She cried, and wept outright ; 


But could not, though he tried ; 




" Then I will to the water-side, 


His head was turned — and so he chewed 




And see him out of sight." 


His pigtaQ till he died. 




A waterman came up to her ; 


His death, which happened in his berth. 




" Xow. young woman," said he. 


At forty-odd l^ef ell : 




" If you weep on so. you will make 


They went and told the sexton, and 




Eye-water in the sea," 


The sexton tolled the l3ell. 

Thomas Hood. 




" Alas I they Ve taken my beau, Ben, 






To sail with old Benlx)w ; " 






And her woe began to run afresh. 






As if she *d said, Gee woe I 


^l)c Z(ih^ at ^ca. 




Says he. '' They Ve only taken him 


Cables entangling her : 




To the tender ship, you see." 


Ship-spai-s for mangling her ; 




'• The tender sliip. cried J^ally Brown — 


Ropes sure of strangling her ; 




" What a hard ship that must be ! 


Blocks over-dangling her ; 
Tiller to batter her : 




" Oh I would I were a mermaid now, 


Topmast to shatter her; 




For then I'd foUow him : 


Tobacco to spatter her ; 




But oh I — I'm not a fish woman, 


Boreas blustering; 




And so I cannot swim. 


Boatswain quite flustering ; 
Thimder-clouds mustering. 




" Alas I I was not born beneath 


To blast her with sulphur — 




The virgin and the scales, 


If the deep don't ingulf her ; 




So I must curse my cruel stars, 


Sometimes fear's scrutiny 




And walk about in Wales." 


Pries out a mutiny, 
Sniffs conflagration. 




Xow Ben had sailed to many a place 


Or hints at starvation ; 




That *s underneath the world ; 


All the sea dangers, 




But in two years the ship came home, 


Buccaneers, rangers, 




And aU her sails were furled. 


Pirates, and Sallee-men, 
Algerine eallevmen. 




But when he called on Sally Brown, 


Tornadoes and typhons, 




To see how she got on, 


And horrible syphons, 




He found she'd got another Ben, 


And submarine travels 




Whose Christian-name was John. 


Thro* roaring sea-navels : 

■ — - — . — ■ — — — ■ 



468 POEMS OF C03IEDY. 


Every thing wrong enough - — 




Long-boat not long enough ; 


©lie toliitc Squall. 


Vessel not strong enough ; 




Pitch marring frippery ; 


Ox deck, beneath the awning. 


The deck very slippery ; 


I dozing lay and yawning ; 


And the cabin — built sloping ; 


It was the gray of dawning. 


The captain a-toping ; 


Ere yet the sun arose ; 


And the mate a blasphemer, 


And above the funnel's roaring. 


That names his Redeemer — 


And the fitful wind's deploring. 


With inward uneasiness ; 


I heard the cabin snoring 


The cook known by greasiness ; 


With universal nose. 


The victuals beslubbered ; 


1 could hear the passengers snorting — 


Her bed — in a cupboard ; 


I envied their disporting — 


Things of strange christening, 


Vainly I was courting 


Snatched in her listening ; 


The pleasure of a doze. 


Blue lights and red lights, 




And mention of dead lights ; 


So I lay, and wondered why light 


And shrouds made a theme of — 


Came not, and watched the twilight, 


Things horrid to dream of ; 


And the glimmer of the skylight, 


And buoys in the water ; 


That shot across the deck ; 


To fear all exhort her ; 


; And the binnacle pale and steady. 


Her friend no Leander — 


And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 


Herself no sea gander : 


And the sparks in fiery eddy 


And ne'er a cork jacket 


That whirled from the chimney neck. 


On board of the packet ; 


In our jovial floating prison 


The breeze still a-stiffening ; 


There was sleep from fore to mizzen. 


The trumpet quite deafening ; 


And never a star had risen 


Thoughts of repentance, 


The hazy sky to speck. 


And doomsday, and sentence ; 




Every thing sinister — 


Strange company we harbored ; 


Not a church minister ; 


We'd a hundred Jews to larboard. 


Pilot a blunderer ; 


Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — 


Coral reefs under her, 


Jews black, and brown, and gray. 


Ready to sunder her : 


With terror it would seize ye. 


Trunks tipsy-topsy ; 


And make your souls uneasy, 


The ship in a dropsy ; 


To see those Rabbis greasy, 


Waves oversurgi ng her ; 


Who did nought but scratch and pray, 


Sirens a-dirging her ; 


Their dirty children puking — 


Sharks all expecting her ; 


Their dirty saucepans cooking — 


Sword-fish dissecting her ; 


Their dirty fingers hooking 


Crabs with their hand-vices 


Their swarming fleas away. 


Punishing land vices ; 




Sea-dogs and unicorns, 


To starboard Turks and Greeks were — 


Things with no puny horns ; 


Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — 


Mermen carnivorous — 


Enormous wide their breeks were — 


" Good Lord deliver us ! " 


Their pipes did puff away ; 


Thomas Hood. 


Each on his mat allotted 




In silence smoked and squatted, 




Whilst round their children trotted 



THE WHITE SQUALL. • 469 


In pretty, pleasant pla,y. 


And the Turkish women for'ard 


He can't but smile who traces 


Were frightened and behorrored. 


The smiles on those brown faces, 


And, shrieking and bewildering. 


And the pretty, prattling graces 


The mothers clutched their children ; 


Of those small heathens gay. 


The men sang " Allah ! Illah ! 




Mashallah Bismillah ! " 


And so the hours kept tolling — 


As the warring waters doused them, 


And through the ocean rolling 


And splashed them and soused them ; 


Went the brave Iberia bowling, 


i. 7 

And they called upon the prophet. 


Before the break of day 


-' X X JL ' 

And thought but little of it. 


When a squall, upon a sudden, 


Then all the fleas in Jewry 


Came o'er the waters scudding ; 


Jumped up and bit like fury : 


And the clouds began to gather. 


And the progeny of Jacob 


And the sea was lashed to lather, 


Did on the main-deck wake up, 


And the lowering thunder grumbled. 


(I wot those greasy Rabbins 


And the lightning jumped and tumbled ; 


Would never pay for cabins ; ) 


And the ship, and all the ocean. 


And each man moaned and jabbered in 


Woke up in wild commotion. 


His filthy Jewish gabardine. 


Then the wind set up a howling, 


In woe and lamentation. 


And the poodle dog a yowling, 


And howling consternation. 


And the cocks began a crowing. 


And the splashing water drenches 


And the old cow raised a lowing. 


Their dirty brats and wenches ; 


As she heard the tempest blowing ; 


And they crawl from bales and benches, 


And fowls and geese did cackle ; 


In a hundred thousand stenches. 


And the cordage and the tackle 




Began to shriek and crackle ; 


This was the white squall famous. 


And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 


Which latterly o'ercame us. 


And down the deck in runnels ; 


And which all will remember, 


And the rushing water soaks all. 


On the 28th September ; 


From the seamen in the fo'ksal 


When a Prussian captain of Lancers 


To the stokers, whose black faces 


(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 


Peer out of their bed-places ; 


Came on the deck astonished, 


And the captain he was bawling. 


By that wild squall admonished. 


And the sailors pulling, hauling. 


And wondering cried, " Potz tausend, 


And the quarter-deck tarpauling 


Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend?" 


Was shivered in the squalling ; 


And looked at Captain Lewis, 


J. CJ ' 

And the passengers awaken. 


Who cahnly stood and blew his 


Most pitifully shaken ; 


Cigar in all the bustle. 


And the steward iumps up, and hastens 


And scorned the tempest's tussle; 


O JL J. ■' 

For the necessary basins. 


And oft we've thought thereafter 


•/ 


How he beat the storm to laughter ; 


Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered. 


For well he knew his vessel 


And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered. 


With that vain wind could wrestle ; 


As the plunging waters met them, 


And when a wreck we thought her, 


And splashed and overset them, 


And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 


And they called in their emergence 


How gayly he fought her, 


Upon countless saints and virgins ; 


And through the hubbub brought her. 


And their marrow-bones are bended. 


And as the tempest caught her, 


And they think the world is ended. 


Cried, "George, some brandy and water!" 



470 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And when, its force expended. 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea, — 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little gii'ls were waking, 
And smiling, and making 

A prayer at home for me. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



^xxit-\\taxXth Ben. 

Bex Bobstay, a tar of the jolly old sort. 
Could keel-haul a main-brace and luff hard a-port : 
And Ben he was smiled on by Sue, Meg, and Moll, 
But all o'er the world he was faithful to Poll. 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
Wherever he sailed he was faithful to Poll. 

'Twas just past six bells when the ship sprung a 

leak 
Xor'west o' the point of the great Mozambique ; 
Young Ben swam ashore, dried his clothes by Old 

Sol, 
And cried to his messmates, " Pm faithful to Poll ! " 
Faithful to Poll, 
Tol de rol lol ! 
He let 'em all drown, to be faithful to Poll. 

He met a princess, of the tribe Kikaroo ; 

She ogled and eyed him. Says Ben, " How d'ye 

do?" 
Says she, "Marry me; on a throne you shall loll." 
Says Ben, " You'll excuse me ; Fm faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
Says Ben, with a bow, " Miss. Fm faithful to Poll." 

Says she, "If you don't, you'll be hung up and 

killed." 
Says Ben, " You fair creatures are all so self-willed." 
So he gave her his hand to avoid sus per coll.. 
But still in his heart he was faithful to Poll. 

Faithful to Poll, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
He married her, saying, " I'm faithful to Poll." 



Another princess, all gold rings and tattoo. 
Saw Ben, and was jealous of Miss Kikaroo. 
Says Ben, " Fight it out, while I sit on a knoll ; 
If t'other kills both, stiU I'm faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to PoU, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
" Whichever kills either, I'm faithful to Poll." 

Their battle surpasses my figures of speech : 
They each whacked the other, and t'other whacked 

each; 
Then both lay down stiff as a jointed wood doll, 
And Ben sings aloud, " Ain't I faithful to Poll ? " 
Faithful to Poll, 
Tol de rol lol ! 
Ben capers while singing, " I'm faithful to Poll I " 

They both then revived and jumped wildly on 

him; 
But Ben saw a ship, so he jumped off to swim. 
The captain calls out, " Your brave deed I extol. 
In England I'll tell them you 're faithful to Poll." 

Faithful to Poll-, 

Tol de rol lol ! 
" Good-by," says the captain, " be faithful to Poll." 

He breasted the waves and he fought with the 

breeze, 
Till exhausted he landed on Stockton-on-Tees ; 
And thence, for a chance, he walked on to Bristol, 
Where he clearly explained he'd been faithful to Poll. 
Faithful to Poll, 
Tol de rol lol ! 
He married, and always was faithful to Poll. 

Anonymous. 



®lic (Drigin of Srclanb. 

With due condescension. I'd call your attention 
To what I shall mention of Erin so green. 
And without hesitation I will show how that nation 
Became of creation the gem and the queen. 

'Twas early one morning, without any warning. 
That Venus was born in the beautiful say. 
And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, 
Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play. 



ST. FA THICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 



471 



Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, 
In order to woo her — the wicked old Jew — 
And almost had caught her atop of the water — 
Great Jupiter's daughter ! — which never would do. 

But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw 
Vanus, 

And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, 

And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asun- 
der — 

And sure 'twas no wonder — for tazing his child. 

A star that was iiying hard by him espying. 
He caught with small trying, and down let it snap ; 
It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking, 
And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. 

That star it was dry land, both low land and high 

land. 
And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth ; 
Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory, 
Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth ! 

Upon Erin nately jumped Venus so stately. 
But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed — 
Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed her 
Her father distilled her a drop of the best. 

That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious — 
A little uproarious, I fear it might prove — 
So how can you blame us that Ireland 's so famous 
For drinking and beauty, for fighting and love ? 

Anonymous. 



St. Patrick toas a (gentleman. 

Oh ! St. Patrick was a gentleman. 

Who came of decent people ; 
He built a church in Dublin town, 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a Gallagher ; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaiighnessy, 

His uncle an O'Grady. 

So, success attend St. Patrick'' s fist. 
For he 's a saint so clever ; 

Oh ! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, 
And iothered them for ever ! 



The Wicklow hills are very high. 

And so 's the Hill of Howth, sir ; 
But there 's a hill, much bigger still. 

Much higher nor them both, sir. 
'Twas on the top of this high hill 

St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs, 

And banished all the varmint. 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

Where dirty varmin musters. 
But there he put his dear fore-foot, 

And murdered them in clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop, 

Slap-dash into the water ; 
And the snakes committed suicide 

To save "themselves from slaughter. 

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses. 
And dined on them at Killaloe 

In soups and second courses. 
Where blind- worms crawling in the grass • 

Disgusted all the nation. 
He gave them a rise which opened their eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gay and frisky, 
For sure St. Pat he taught them that, 

As well as making whiskey ; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling. 
Since his mother kept & shebeen-shop 

In the town of Enniskillen. 

Oh ! was I but so fortunate 
As to be back in Munster, 
'Tis I'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 
For there St. Patrick planted turf, 

And plenty of the praties, 
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store. 
And cabbages — and ladies ! 
Then my Messing on St. Fatriclc's fist, 

For he^s the darling saint oh ! 
Oh ! he gave the snakes and toads a twist ; 
He 's a beauty without paint oh ! 

Henry Bennett. 



472 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



St. Patrick of Jrclanb, tng Dear! 

A FIG for St. Denis of France — 

He 's a trumpery fellow to brag on ; 
X fig for St. George and his lance, 

Which spitted a heathenish dragon ; 
And the saints of the Welshman or Scot 

Are a couple of pitiful pipers, 
Both of whom may just travel to pot. 

Compared with that patron of swipers — 
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear ! 

He came to the Emerald Isle 

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted ; 
The steamboat he beat by a mile, 

Which mighty good sailing was counted. 
Says he, " The salt water, I think, 

Has made me most bloodily thirsty ; 
So bring me a flagon of drink 

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye ! 
Of drink that is fit for a saint ! " 

He preached, then, with wonderful force. 

The ignorant natives a-teaching; 
With a pint he washed down his discourse, 

"For," says he, "I detest your dry preach- 
ing." 
The people, with wonderment struck 

At a pastor so pious and civil. 
Exclaimed — " We're for you, my old buck ! 

And we pitch our blind gods to the devil. 
Who dwells in hot water below ! " 

This ended, our worshipful spoon 

Went to visit an elegant fellow, 
Whose practice, each cool afternoon, 

Was to get most delightfully mellow. 
That day, with a black-jack of beer, 

It chanced he was treating a party ; 
Says the saint — " This good day, do you hear, 

I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty ! 
So give me a pull at the pot ! " 

The pewter he lifted in sport 

(Believe me, I tell you no fable); 
A gallon he drank from the quart, 

And then placed it full on the table. 



'• A miracle ! " every one said — 
And they all took a haul at the stingo ; 

They were capital hands at the trade, 
And drank till they fell ; yet, by jingo, 

The pot still frothed over the brim. 

Xext day, quoth his host, " 'Tis a fast, 

And I've nought in my larder but mutton ; 
And on Fridays who'd make such repast. 

Except an unchristian-like glutton ? " 
Says Pat, " Cease your nonsense, I beg — 

What you tell me is nothing but gammon ; 
Take my compliments down to the leg. 

And bid it come hither a salmon ! " 

And the leg most pohtely complied. 

You 've heard, I suppose, long ago, 

How the snakes, in a manner most antic, - 
He marched to the county Mayo, 

And trundled them into th' Atlantic. 
Hence, not to use water for drink, 

The people of Ireland determine — 
With mighty good reason, I think. 

Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin 
And vipers, and other such stuff ! 

Oh ! he was an elegant blade 

As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper ; 
And though under the sod he is laid. 

Yet here goes his health in a bumper ! 
I wish he was here, that my glass 

He might by art magic replenish ; 
But since he is not — why, alas ! 

My ditty must come to a finish, — 
Because all the liquor is out ! 

William Maginn. 



3ri}e (5roiics of Biarnct}. 

The groves of Blarney they look so charming, 

Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks — 
All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there. 

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
'Tis there 's the daisy, and the sweet carnation, 

The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; 
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 

All flowers that scent the sweet, open air. 



THE miSBJIAX. 



473 



'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair ; 
Tiiere 's no commander in all the nation 

For regulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, 

And made a breach in her battlement. 

There 's gravel walks there for speculation, 

And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon. 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
'Tis there her courtier he may transport her 

In some dark fort, or under the ground. 

For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight en- 
ters. 

But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 
Being mossed by natur". that makes it sweeter 

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
'Tis there 's the lake that is stored with perches, 

And comely eels in the verdant mud : 
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches. 

All standing in order for to guard th,e flood. 

'Tis there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, 

"With the maids a-stitching upon the stair ; 
The" bread and biske\ the beer and whiskey, 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 

A washing praties foment the door. 
With Roger Clearv, and Father Healy, 

All blood relations to my Lord Donough- 
more. 

There 's statues gracing this noble place in, 

All heathen goddesses so fair — 
Bold Xeptune, Plutarch, and Xicodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
So now to finish this brave narration, 

Which my poor geni' could not entwine ; 
But were I Homer, or Xebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. 

RiCHAKD Alfred Mii-ltkix. 



Z[)c Srisl^man. 

There was a lady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man — 
And yet. in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell in love with an Irishman — 
A nasty, ugly Irishman — 
A wild, tremendous Irishman — 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, 
roaring Irishman. 

His face was no ways beautiful, 

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across ; 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman — 
The whiskey-devouring Irishman — 
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue — 
the fighting, rioting Irishman ! 

One of his eyes was bottle green, 

And the other eye was out, my dear ; 
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my deax ! 
Oh, the great big Irishman — 
The rattling, battling Irishman — 
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, 
leathering swash of an Irishman. 

He took so much of Lundy-foot 

That he used to snort and snutfle oh ; 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman — 
The thundering, blundering Irishman — 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, 
hashing Irishman. 

His name was a terrible name, indeed. 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch 
He"d not rest till he filled it full again ; 
The boozing, bruising Irishman — 
The 'toxicated Irishman — 
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no 
dandy Irishman. 

This was the lad the lady loved, 
Like all the girls of quality ; 



474 POEMS OF COMEDY. 


And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, 


Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon 


Just by the way of jollity ; 


gore ; 


Oh, the leathering Irishman — 


And Mitchil of Belfast 


The barbarous, savage Irishman — 


We bade to our repast. 


The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads 


To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. 


were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman. 




William ISFaginn. 


Convaniently to hould 




These patriots so bould. 




We took the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; 


^\)Z Battle of Citncrick. 


And with ornamints and banners 




(As becomes gintale good manners) 


Ye genii of the nation, 


We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon 


Who look with yeneration, 


shore. 


And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore, 




Ye sons of Gineral Jackson, 


'Twould binifit your sowls 


Who thrample on the Saxon, 


To see the butthered rowls, 


Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. 


The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim gal- 


When William, Duke of Schumbug, 


yore, 
And the muffins and the crumpets, 


A tyrant and a humbug, 


And the band of harps and thrumpets. 


With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, 


To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. 


Our fortitude and valliance 




Insthructed his battalions. 


Sure the imperor of Bohay 


To rispict the gallant Irish upon Shannon shore. 


Would be proud to dthrink the tay 




That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did 


Since that capitulation, 


pour ; 


Xo city in the nation 


And, since the days of Strongbow, 


So grand a reputation could boast before, 


There never was such Congo — 


As Limerick prodigious, 


Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it — by Shannon 


That stands with quays and bridges, 


shore. 


And ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. 






But Clamdon and Corry 


A chief of ancient line, 


Connellan beheld this sworry 


'Tis William Smith O'Brine, 


With rage and imulation in their black hearts' 


Reprisints this darling Limerick this ten years or 


core ; 


more ; 


And they hired a gang of ruffins 


Oh the Saxons can't endure 


To interrupt the muffins. 


To see him on the flure. 


And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon 


And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! 


shore. 


This yaliant son of Mars 


When full of tay and cake, 


Had been to visit Par's, 


O'Brine began to spake. 


That land of revolution, that grows the tricolor ; 


But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar 


And to welcome his return 


Of a ragamuffin rout 


From pilgrimages furren. 


Began to yell and shout. 


We inyited him to tay on the Shannon shore. 


And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. 


Then we summoned to our board 


As Smith O'Brine harangued, 


Young Meagher of the sword ; 


They batthered and they banged ; 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 



475 



Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they 
tore : 
They smashed the lovely windies 
(Hung with muslin from the Indies), 

Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. 

With throwing of brickbats, 

Drowned puppies and dead rats. 
These ruffin democrats themselves did lower ; 

Tin kettles, rotten eggs, 

Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. 

Oh, the girls began to scrame, 
And upset the milk and crame ; 
And the honorable jintlemin they cursed and 
swore : 
And Mitchil of Belfast, 
'Twas he that looked aghast. 
When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon 
shore. 

Oh, the lovely tay was spilt 
On that day of Ireland's guilt ; 
Says Jack Mitchil, " I am kilt ! Boys, where 's the 
back door ? 
'Tis a national disgrace ; 
Let me go and veil me face ! " 
And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon 
shore. 

" Cut down the bloody horde ! " 

Says Meagher of the sword, 
" This conduct would disgrace any blackamoor ; " 

But millions were arrayed. 

So he shaythed his battle-blade, 
Rethrayting undismayed from the Shannon shore. 

Immortal Smith O'Brine 
Was raging like a line ; 
'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard 
him roar ; 
In his glory he arose. 
And he rushed upon his foes. 
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon 
shore. 

Then the futt and the dthragoons 
In squadthrons and platoons, 



With their music playing chunes, down upon us 
bore; 

And they bate the rattatoo, 

And the Peelers came in view, 
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



ittolong's £atnent. 

Tim, did you hear of thim Saxons, 
And read what the peepers repoort ? 

They 're goan to recal the lif tinant. 
And shut up the castle and coort ! 

Our desolate counthry of Oireland 
They 're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy ; 

And now, having murdthered our counthry, 
They're goin to kill the viceroy. 
Dear boy ! — 

'Twas he was our proide and our joy. 

And will we no longer behould him, 
Surrounding his carriage in throngs, 

As he weaves his cocked hat from the win- 
dies. 
And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs % 

1 liked for to see the young haroes, 

All shoining with sthripes and with stars, 
A horsing about in the Phaynix, 

And winking the girls in the cyars — 

Like Mars, 
And smokin' their poipes and cigyars. 

Dear Mitehel, exoiled to Bermudies, 

Your beautiful oilids you'll ope ! — 
And there'll be an abondance of croyin 

From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope — 
When they read of this news in the peepers, 

Acrass the Atlantieal wave. 
That the last of the Oirish liftinants 

Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. 
God save 

The queen — she should betther behave ! 

And what 's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, 
And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, 

Whin the coort of imparial splindor 
From Doblin's sad city departs ? 



476 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers 
When the deuce of a coort there remains ; 

And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, 
To hire the coort-shuits and the thrains ? 

In sthrains 
It "s thus that ould Erin complains ! 

There 's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy, 

'Twas she in the coort didn't fail, 
And she "wanted a plinty of popplin 

For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail ; 
She bought it of Misthress O'Grady — 

Eight shillings a yard tabinet — 
But now that the coort is concluded, 

The divvle a yard will she get ; 
I bet, 

Bedad, that she wears the ould set. 

There 's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, 

They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs' ; 
Each year, at the dthrawing-room sayson. 

They mounted the natest of wigs. 
When spring, with its buds and its daisies. 

Comes out in her beauty and bloom, 
Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, 

Because there is no dthrawing-room, 
For whom 

They'd choose the expense to ashume. 

There 's Alderman Toad and his lady, 

'Twas they gave the clart and the poort. 
And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters. 

To feast the lord liftinant's coort. 
But now that the quality 's goin, 

I warnt that the aiting will stop, 
And you'll get at the alderman's teeble 

The divvle a bite or a dthrop. 
Or chop. 

And the butcher may shut up his shop. 

Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin ; 

And his lordship, the dear, honest man ; 
And the duchess, his eemiable leedy ; 

And Corry, the bould Connellan : 
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren ; 

And the chewter and governess tu ; 
And the servants are packing their boxes — 

Oh, murther, but what shall I due 
Without you ? 

Meery, with ois of the blue ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



illr. ilXolanii's Account of tl)e Ball 

GIVEN TO THE XEPAULESE AilBASSADOR BY THE 
PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. 

Oh will ye choose to hear the news ? 

Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er : 
I'll tell you all about the ball 

To the Xaypaulase ambassador. 
Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
" We'll show the blacks," says they, " Almack's, 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Xepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up. 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and haUs, 

With roses and with lilies up. 

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand. 

So sweetly in the middle there. 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes. 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the coort was tired of spoort, 

I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set, 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was ! 

At ten, before the ball-room door 

His moighty excellency was ; 
He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd — 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute. 

Into the door- way followed him ; 
And oh the noise of the blackguard boys, 

As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 

The noble chair stud at the stair. 

And bade the dtlirums to thump ; and he 
Did thus evince to that black prince 

The welcome of his company. 
Oh fair the girls, and rich tlie curls, 

And bright the oys you saw there, was ; 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spot, 

On Gineral Junsr Bahawther was I 



MIDGES. 



477 



This gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals ;) 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin on his cushion was 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin and the pushin was. 

Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentility ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- 
geese 

Ministher and his lady there ; 
And I reckonized, with much surprise. 

Our messmate. Bob O'Grrady, there. 

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like 
Juno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there. 
And Countess RouUier, who looked peculiar 

Well in her robe of gauze, in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 

When only Mr. Pips he was). 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool. 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, 

And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past. 

And seemed to ask how should 1 go there ; 
And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 

And the marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and pearls. 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
And some beside (the rogues !) I spied 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
Oh, there 's one I know, bedad, would show 

As beautiful as any there ; 
And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, 

And shake a f ut with Fanny there ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



illibges. 

She is talking sesthetics, the dear clever creature ! 

Upon Man and his functions, she speaks with a 
smile. 
Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature, 

The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle. 

I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, 
now; 
So I follow with my surreptitious cigar ; 
While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, 
now. 
Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her 
Thoughts on a Star. 

Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower 
A swarm of young midges. They dance high 
and low. 

'Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour, 
And the eldest was born half an hour ago. 

One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring 
In the ears of a shy little wanton in gauze. 

His eternal devotion ; his ceaseless adoring ; 

Which shall last till the universe breaks from its 
laws: 

His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever 
Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control : 

It will burn in his breast through existence for- 
ever, 
Immutably fixed in the deeps of the soul ! 

She wavers : she flutters : . . . male midges are 
fickle : 
Dare she trust him her future? . . . she asks 
with a sigh ; 
He implores, . . . and a tear is beginning to 
trickle : 
She is weak : they embrace, and . . . the lovers 
pass by. 

While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has 
lighted 
A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn : 
His existence is withered ; its future is blighted : 
His hopes are betrayed : and his breast is for- 
lorn. 



478 



POEMS OF C03IEDY. 



JBy the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived 
now: 
In the virtue of midges no more he believes : 
From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, 
now 
He will bury his desolate life in the leaves. 

His friends would console him . . . the noblest 
and sagest 
Of midges have held that a midge lives again ; 
In Eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest 
With sorrow, shall cease . . . but their words 
are in vain ! 

Can Eternity bring back the seconds now wasted 
In hopeless desire ? or restore to his breast 

The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once 
tasted. 
Embracing the midge that his being loved best ? 

His friends would console him . . . life yet is be- 
fore him ; 
Many hundred long seconds he still has to live : 
In the state yet a mighty career spreads before 
him ; 
Let him seek in the great world of action to 
strive ! 

There is Fame ! there 's Ambition 1 and, grander 
than either, 
There is Freedom ! . . . the progress and march 
of the race ! . . . 
But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and 
neither 
Ambition nor action her loss can replace. 

If the time had been spent in acquiring eesthetics 
I have squandered in learning this language of 
midges, 

There might, for my friend in her peripatetics. 
Have been now two asses to help o'er the bridges. 

As it is, . . . I'll report her the whole conversation. 
It would have been longer ; but, somehow or 
other, 
(In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamenta- 
tion), 
A midge in my right eye became a young 
mother. 



Since my friend is so clever, I'll ask her to tell me 
Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the 

egg!) 
Can make a man's tears flow, as now it befell me . . . 
you dear clever woman, explain it, I beg ! 

Robert, Lord Lttton. 



St. ^ntlionri's Scrman ta i\\z i^i6l}C0. 

St. Anthony at church 

Was left in the lurch, 

So he went to the ditches 

And preached to the fishes ; 
They wriggled their tails, 
In the sun glanced their scales. 

The carps, with their spawn, 

Are all hither drawn ; 

Have opened their jaws, 

Eager for each clause. 
No sermon beside 
Had the carps so edified, 

Sharp-snouted pikes, 

Who keep fighting like tikes, 

Now swam up harmonious 

To hear St. Antonius. 
No sermon beside 
Had the pikes so edified. 

And that very odd fish. 

Who loves fast days, the cod-fish — 

The stock-fish, I mean — 

At the sermon was seen. 

No sermon beside 

Had the cods so edified. 

Good eels and sturgeon. 
Which aldermen gorge on, 
Went out of their way 
To hear preaching that day. 

No sermon beside 

Had the eels so edified. 

Crabs and turtles also, 
Who always move slow. 
Made haste from the bottom 
As if the devil had got 'em. 



THE VICAR OF BRAY, 



479 



No sermon beside 

Had the crabs so edified. 

Fish great and fish small, 
Lords, lackeys, and all, 
Each looked at the preacher, 
Like a reasonable creature : 

At God's word, 

They Anthony heard. 

The sermon now ended, 

Each turned and descended ; " 

The pikes went on stealing, 

The eels went on eeling ; 

Much delighted were they, 
But preferred the old way. 

The crabs are backsliders, 

The stock-fish thick-siders, 

The carps are sharp-set, 

All the sermon forget ; 

Much delighted were they. 
But preferred the old way. 

Anontsioits. 



^\)Z bicar of Braw. 

In good King Charles's golden days, 

When loyalty no harm meant, 
A zealous high-churchman was I, 

And so I got preferment. 
To teach my flock I never missed : 

Kings were by God appointed, 
And lost are those that dare resist 
Or touch the Lord's anointed. 
And this is law that Til maintain 

Until my dying day, sii% 
That whatsoever king shall reign, 
Still Til he the vicar of Bray, sir, 

When royal James possessed the crown. 

And popery grew in fashion. 
The penal laws I hooted down. 

And read the declaration ; 
The Church of Rome I found would fit 

Full well my constitution ; 
And I had been a Jesuit, 

But for the revolution. 



A7id this is law that Til maintain 
Until my dying day, sir, 

That whatsoever king shall reign, 
Still Til be the vicar of Bray, sir. 

When William was our king declared 

To ease the nation's grievance, 
With this new wind about I steered, 

And swore to him allegiance ; 
Old principles I did revoke, 

Set conscience at a distance ; 
Passive obedience was a joke, 
A jest was non-resistance. 
And this is law that Til maintain 

Until my dying day, sir, 
TJiat whatsoever king shall reign. 
Still Til he the vicar of Bray, sir. 

When royal Anne became our queen, 

The church of England's glory, 
Another face of things was seen, 

And I became a tory ; 
Occasional conformists base, 

I blamed their moderation ; 
And thought the church in danger was, 
By such prevarication. 
And this is law that Til maintain 

Until my dying day, sir. 
That whatsoever king shall reign, 
Still Til he the vicar of Bray, sir. 

When George in pudding-time came o'er. 

And moderate men looked big, sir, 
My principles I changed once more, 

And so became a whig, sir ; 
And thus preferment I procured 

From our new faith's defender; 
And almost every day abjured 
The pope and the pretender. 
Ajid this is law that Til ?naintain 

Until my dying day, sir, 
Tliat ivhatsoever king shall reign. 
Still Til he the vicar of Bray, sir. 

Th' illustrious house of Hanover, 

And Protestant succession, 
To these I do allegiance swear — 

While they can keep possession : 



480 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



For in my faith and loyalty 

I never more will falter, 
And George my lawful king shall be — 
Until the times do alter. 

And this is law that I'' II maintain 

Until my dying day, sir, 
Tliat whatsoever Jiing shall reign, 
Still Til be the vicar of Bray, sir. 

Anontmous. 



(Z:iie bi 



icar. 



Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
"When Darnel Park was Darnel waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket , 
Was always shown across the green, 

And guided to the parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don, and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlor-steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

" Our master knows you ; you 're expected." 

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ; " 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow. 
Wliate'cr the stranger's caste or creed. 

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner. 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end. 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend, 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor. 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. 

And not the vicarage or the vicar. 



His talk was like a stream which runs 

Witli rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns ; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine, 

Of loud dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stablished truth or startled error. 
The Baptist found him far too deep. 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, 
And the lean Levite went to sleep 

And dreamt of eating pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or showed 

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road. 

From Jerome or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penned and planned 
them. 
For all who understood admired. 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote too in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's ghost ; 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; 
And trifles for the " Morning Post ; " 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair. 

Although he had a knack of Joking ; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a taste for smoking; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That if a man's belief is bad. 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 
In the low hut or garnished cottage. 

And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage. 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE. 



481 



S3 



At his approach complaint grew mild, 
And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 

The clammy lips of fever smiled 
The welcome that they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Cgesar or of Venus ; 
From him I learned the rule of three, 

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qucb genus. 
I used to singe his powdered wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
And make the puppy dance a jig 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack, the change ! In vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled ! 
The church is larger than before, 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more, 

And pews are fitted for the gentry. 

Sit in the vicar's seat ; you'll hear 

Tlie doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, 

Whose tone is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid 1 Look down 

And construe on the slab before you — 
Hicjacet Gulielnms Brown, 

Vir nulla non donandus lauro. 

WiNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED. 



2^tDent^-eigl)t anb iJ^toentri-nine. 

I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh, 

And an infant's idle laughter : 
The old year went with mourning by — 

The new came dancing after ! 
Let sorrow shed her lonely tear — 

Let revelry hold her ladle ; 
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier — 

Fling roses on the cradle ; 
Mutes to wait on the funeral state, 

Pages to pour the wine : 
A requiem for twenty-eight. 

And a health to twenty-nine ! 



Alas for human happiness ! 

Alas for human sorrow ! 
Our yesterday is nothingness — 

What else will be our morrow ? 
Still beauty must be stealing hearts, 

And knavery stealing purses ; 
Still cooks m.ust live by making tarts, 

And wits by making verses ; 
While sages prate, and courts debate, 

The same stars set and shine ; 
And the world, as it rolled through twenty- 
eight, 

Must roll through twenty-nine. 

Some king will come, in Heaven's good time. 

To the tomb his father came to ; 
Some thief will wade through blood and crime 

To a crown he has no claim to ; 
Some suffering land will rend in twain 

The manacles that bound her. 
And gather the links of the broken chain 

To fasten them proudly round her ; 
The grand and great will love and hate, 

And combat and combine ; 
And much where we were in twenty-eight 

We shall be in twenty-nine. 

O'Connell will toil to raise the rent, 

And Kenyon to sink the nation ; 
And Shiel will abuse the Parliament, 

And Peel the association ; 
And thought of bayonets and swords 

Will make ex-chancellors merry ; 
And jokes will be cut in the house of lords. 

And throats in the county of Kerry ; 
And writers of weight will speculate 

On the cabinet's design ; 
And just what it did in twenty-eight 

It will do in twenty-nine. 

And the goddess of love will keep her smiles. 

And the god of cups his orgies ; 
And there'll be riots in St. Giles, 

And weddings in St. George's : 
And mendicants will sup like kings, 

And lords will swear like lacqueys ; 
And black eyes oft will lead to rings, 

And rings will lead to black eyes ; 



482 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And pretty Kate will scold her mate, 

In a dialect all divine ; 
Alas ! they married in twenty-eight, 

They will part in twenty-nine. 

My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs, 

And talk of his oils and blubbers ; 
My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns. 

And rather longer rubbers : 
My cousin in Parliament will prove 

How utterly ruined trade is ; 
My brother, at Eton, will fall in love 

With half a hundred ladies ; 
My patron will sate his pride from plate, 

And his thirst from Bordeaux wine — 
His nose was red in twenty-eight, 

'Twill be redder in twenty-nine. 

And oh ! I shall find how, day by day. 

All thoughts and things look older — 
How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, 

And the heart of friendship colder ; 
But still I shall be what I have been. 

Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
And seldom troubled with the spleen, 

And fond of talking treason ; 
1 shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate, 

And throw and write my line ; 
And the woman I worshipped in twenty-eight 

1 shall worship in twenty-nine. 

WiNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED. 



plain Canguaae from (Trntlifnl Jjf antes. 

Which I wish to remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name, 

And I shall not deny 
In i-egard to the same 

What that name might imply ; 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As T frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 



It was August the third, 

And quite soft were the skies ; 
"^liich it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise. 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand ; 
It was euchre — the same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat at the table 

With the smile that was childlike and 
bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve. 
And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Xye's sleeve. 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee 
And the points that he made 

Were quite frightful to see. 
Till at last he put down a right bower. 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh. 

And said, " Can this be ? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor ! " 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand. 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 

In the game he did not understand. 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He had twenty-four packs. 
Which was coming it strong. 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper, 

What is frequent in tapers — that 's wax. 



MAJVS B RE ITM ANN'S PARTY. 



483 



Which is why I remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are yain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 

Bret Harte. 



^axiQ Bmtmann's IJartg. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

Dey had biano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mit a Meriean Frau, 

Her name vas Madilda Yane. 
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, 

Her eyes vas him me] -blue, 
Und ven dey looket indo mine, 

Dey shplit mine heart in two. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere you'll pe pound. 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane 

Und vent shpinnen round und round. 
De pootiest Fraeulein in de house, 

She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I dells you it cost him dear. 
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks 

Of f oost-rate lager bier ; 
Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in, 

De Deutschers gifes a cheer. 
I dinks dat so vine a barty 

Nefer coom to a het dis year. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty ; 

Dere all vas Souse und Brouse, 
Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany 

Did make demselfs to house ; 
Dey ate das Brot imd Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst und Braten fine, 
Und vash deir Abendessen down 

Mit four parrels of Neckarwein, 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 
We all cot troonk ash bigs ; 



I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier 
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. 

Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane, 
Und she shlog me on de kop, 

Und de gompany fited mit dable-lecks 
Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — 

Where ish dat barty now ? 
Where ish de lof ely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow ? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern — 

De shtar of de shpirit's light ? 
All goned afay mit de lager bier — 

Afay in de ewigkeit ! 

Charles Godfrey Leland. 



Der noble B,itter Hugo 

Von Schwillensaufenstein 
Rode out mit shpeer und helmet, 

Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine. 

Und oop dere rose a meer-maid, 

Vot had n't got nodings on, 
Und she say, '• O Hitter Hugo, 

Vhere you goes mit yourself alone ? " 

Und he says, " I rides in de creenwood 

Mit helmet und mit shpeer. 
Till I cooms into ein gasthaus, 

Und dere I trinks some beer." 

Und den outshpoke de maiden 

Vot had n't got nodings on : 
" I ton't dink mooch of beeplesh 

Dat goes mit demselfs alone. 

" You'd petter coom down in de wasser, 
Vere dere's heaps of dings to see, 

Und hafe a shplendid tinner, 
Und drafel along mit me. 

" Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin, 
Und you catches dem efery one," 

So sang dis wasser maiden 
Vot had n't got nodings on. 



484 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



'• Dere ish drunks all full mit money, 

In ships dot vent down of old ; 
Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder ! 

To shimmerin crowns of gold. 

" Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatehes ! 

Shoost see dese diamant rings ! 
Coom down und fill your bockets, 

Cnd I'll giss you like avery dings. 

" Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager ? 

Coom down into der Rhine ! 
Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne 

Vonce filled mit gold-red wine ! " 

Dat fetched him — he shtood all shpell-poiind : 

She pooled his coat-tails down, 
She drawed him oonder der wasser, 

De maiden mit nodings on. 

Charles Godfrey Lelaxd. 



toliat iHr. Bobinsou (J^l}inks. 

GuTENER B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

My ! ain't it teiTible ? Wut shall we du ! 

We can't never choose him o' course, — thet 's flat ; 
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 

He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf ; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 
He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself ; 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 
He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud ; 



Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer. 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 

With good old ideas o' wut 's right an' wut ain't. 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage. 
An' thet eppyletts wor n't the best mark of a saint ; 
" But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. . 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, lieh our country. 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the dehit to him, an' to us i\iQ per contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 

Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw.fiun : 
An' that all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an', of course, so 
must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 
coats. 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. 

Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us 

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I 
vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 

James Russell Lowell. 



PAET Til. 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The mournful funeral slow proceeds behind, 
Arrayed in black, the heavy head declined ; 
Wide yawns the grave ; dull tolls the solemn Ijell ; 
Dark lie the dead ; and long the last farewell. 
There music sounds, and dancers shake the hall ; 
But here the silent tears incessant fall. 
Ere Mirth can well her comedy begin, 
The tragic demon oft comes thundering in, 
Confounds the actors, damps the merry show, 
And turns the loudest laugh to deepest woe. 

John Wilson. 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Sir Patrick Spene. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine ; 
" Oh where will I get a skeely skipper 

To sail this new ship of mine ? " 

Oh lip and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And sealed it with his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, ■ 

Was walking on the strand. 

" To Xoroway, to Xoroway, 

To Xoroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Xoroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame ! " 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he ; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

" Oh wha is this has done this deed. 

And tauld the king o' me, 
To send us out at this time of the year. 

To sail upon the sea ? 

" Be it wind, be it weet. be it hail, be it sleet. 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Xoroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her hame." 



They hoysed their sails on Monenday mom 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway, but twae. 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd 

And a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loudl 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

" For I hae brought as mucli white monie 

As gane my men and me, — 
And I hae brought a half-fouo' gude red gowd 

Out owre the sea wi' me. 

" Make ready, make ready, my merry men a' ! 

Oar gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear well come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew 
loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 



488 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 


And lang, lang may the maidens sit. 


It was sic a deadly storm ; 


Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 


And the waves came o'er the broken ship 


A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 


Till a' her sides were torn. 


For them they'll see na mair. 


" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 


Oh forty miles off Aberdour 


To take my helm in hand, 


'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 


Till I get up to the tall topmast 


And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 


To see if I can spy land ? " 


Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 




Anonymous. 


" Oh here am I, a sailor gude, 




To take the helm in hand, 




Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 




But 1 fear you'll ne'er spy land." 


®l)e iBoraie HDcne of ^arrott). 


He hadna gane a step, a step, 


Late at e'en, drinking the wine, 


A step, but barely ane. 


And ere they paid the lawing. 


When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, 


They set a combat them between. 


And the salt sea it came in. 


To fight it in the dawing. 


" Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith. 


" Oh stay at hame, my noble lord ! 


Another o' the twine. 


Oh stay at hame, my marrow ! 


And wap them into our ship's side, 


My cruel brother will you betray 


And letna the sea come in." 


On the dowie houms of Yarrow." 


They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 


" Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 


Another o' the twine. 


Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 


And they wrapped them roun' that gude ship's 


For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 


side. 


Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 


— But still the sea came in. 




Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 

But lang or a' the play was played, 
They wat their hats aboon. 


She kissed his cheek, she kamed his hair. 
As oft she had done before, oh ; 

She belted him with his noble brand. 
And he 's away to Yarrow. 


And mony was the feather-bed 
That floated on the faem ; 

And mony was the gude lord's son 
That never mair came hame. 


As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

I wot he gaed wi' sorrow. 
Till, down in a den, he spied nine armed men. 

On the dowie houras of Yarrow. 


The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — 


" Oh come ye here to part your land. 


The maidens tore their hair ; 


The bonnie forest thorough ? 


A' for the sake of their true loves, — 


Or come ye here to wield your brand. 


For them they'll see na mair. 


On the dowie houms of Yarrow?" — 


Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 


" I come not here to part my land, 


Wi' their fans into their hand, 


And neither to beg nor borrow ; 


Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 


I come to wield my noble brand. 


Come sailing to the strand ! 


On the l)onnie banks of Y'arrow. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 



489 



" If I see all, ye 're nine to ane ; 

And that 's an unequal marrow : 
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. " 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain, 

On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 
Till that stubborn knight came him behind 

And ran his body thorough. 

" Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah 
To come and lift her leafu' lord ; 

He 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." — 

" Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream : 

I fear there will be sorrow ! 
I dreamed 1 pu'd the heather green, 

Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 

" gentle wind, that bloweth south, 

From where my love repaireth, 
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 

And tell me how he fareth ! 

" But in the glen strive armed men ; 

They 've wrought me dole and sorrow : 
They've slain — the comeliest knight they've 
slain — 

He bleeding lies on Yarrow." 

As she sped down yon high, high hill, 

She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, 
And in the den spied ten slain men, 

On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 

She kissed his cheeks, she kaimed his hair. 
She searched his wounds all thorough ; 

She kissed them, till her lips grew red. 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

" Now baud your tongue, my daughter dear ! 

For a' this breeds but sorrow ; 
I'll wed ye to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — 

" Oh hand your tongue, my father dear ! 

Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
A fairer rose did never bloom 

Than now lies cropped on Yarrow." 

Anonymous. 



^\\z Brace of garrotD. 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. 

And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow." 

" Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride. 
Where got ye that winsome marrow ? " 

" I got her where I daurna weel be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! 

Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? " 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she 
weep — 

Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" For she has tint her lover, lover dear — 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

And I hae slain the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Why runs thy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow red ? 

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? 

" What 's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful 
flood? 

What 's yonder floats ? — Oh, dule and sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 

Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. 

"Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in 
tears. 

His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow ; 
And wi'ap his limbs in mourning weeds, 

And lay him on the banks of Yarrow. 



490 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



" Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, 

Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 
And weep around, in waeful wise, 

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, 
And warn from fight I But, to my sorrow, 

Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st. 
Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows 
the grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the go wan ; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing ! " 

" Flows Yarrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows 
Tweed ; 

As green its grass; its gowan as yellow; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk ; 

The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 

" Fair was thy love ! fair, fair indeed thy love ! 

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter ; 
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again, 

Than I he never loved thee better. 

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

*' Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 
Xor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there was basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lover. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green. 
His purple vest — 'twas my ain sewing; 

Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was, in these, to meet his ruin. 



" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white 
steed, 

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the toofall of the night. 

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow ! 

" Much I rejoiced that waefu', waef u' day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, and left me mourning. 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do. 

But with his cruel rage pursue me i 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffing 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes, 

My lover nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid, 

And strive, with threatening words, to move 
me ; 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love ! 

With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 

Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

" But who the expected husband, husband is ! 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter ! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ! 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take off, take off these bridal weeds, 

And crown my careful head with willow. 

" Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, 
Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Yet lie all night within my arms — 
No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

" Pale, pale indeed, lovely, lovely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
And lie all night Avithin my arms. 

No youth shall ever lie there after ! " 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 491 


" Return, return, mournful, mournful bride ! 


He promised me a wedding-ring — 


Return, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 


The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 


Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 


Now he is wedded to his grave, 


He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow." 


Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 


, WrLLiAM Hamilton. 


Sweet were his words when last we met : 




My passion I as freely told him ! 




Clasped in his arms, I little thought 


Eare iDillg JUroroneb in garrotD. 


That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 


" Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair, 
And Willy 's wondrous bonny ; 
And Willy heght to marry me. 


It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 


Gin e'er he married ony. 


His mother from the window looked, 


" Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, 
This night I'll make it narrow ; 

For a' the livelang winter night 
I ly twined of my marrow. 


With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The green-wood path to meet her brother. 
They sought him east, they sought him west. 

They sought him all the forest thorough ; 


" Oh came you by yon water-side ? 
Pou'd you the rose or lily f 


They only saw the cloud of night, 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 


Or came you by yon meadow green ? 


No longer from thy window look, 


Or saw you my sweet Willy ? " 


Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 




No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 


She sought him east, she sought him west. 


Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 


She sought him braid and narrow ; 


No longer seek him east or west, 


Syne in the cleaving of a craig, 


And search no more the forest thorough, 


She found him drowned in Yarrow. 


For, wandering in the night so dark. 


Anonymous. 


He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 




The tear shall never leave my cheek. 




No other youth shall be my marrow ; 


Soitig. 


I'll seek thy body in the stream. 


Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream ! 
When first on them I met my lover ; 


And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. 

John Logan. 


Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream ! 




When now thy waves his body cover. 


®l)e EJoujglas ^rageb^. 


For ever now, Yarrow stream ! 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 


" Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas," she says, 
" And put on your armor so bright ; 

Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 
Was married to a lord under night. 


He promised me a milk-white steed. 


" Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons. 


To bear me to his father's bowers ; 


And put on your armor so bright. 


He promised me a little page, 


And take better care of your youngest sister, 


To 'squire me to his father's towers ; 


For your eldest 's awa the last night." 



493 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXI) SORROW. 



He "s mounted her on a milk-white steed, 

And himself on a dapple gray, 
With a bugelet-horn hung down by his side, 

And lightly they rode away. 

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 

To see what he could see. 
And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 

Come riding o'er the lee. 

" Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
" And hold my steed in your hand. 

Until that against your seven brethren bold. 
And your father, I mak a stand." 

She held his steed in her milk-white hand. 

And never shed one tear, 
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', 

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so 
dear. 

" hold your hand, Lord William ! " she said, 
" For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; 

True lovers I can get many a ane, 
But a father I can never get mair." 

she 's ta'en out her handkerchief. 

It was o' the Holland sae fine. 
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds. 

That were redder than the wine. 

" chuse, chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, 
" whether will ye gang or bide?" 

" I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 
" For you have left me no other guide." 

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, 

And himself on a dapple gray. 
With a bugelet-horn hung down by his side. 

And slowly they baith rode away. 

they rade on, and on they rade. 

And a' by the light of the moon, 
Until they came to yon wan water. 

And there they lighted down. 

They lighted down to tak a drink 

Of the spring that ran sae clear: 
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood. 

And sair she gan to fear. 



'• Hold up, hold up. Lord William," she says, 

" For I fear that you are slain I " 
" 'Tis nae thing but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, 

That shines in the water sae plain." 

they rade on, and on they rade. 

And a' by the light of the moon. 
Lentil they cam' to his mother's ha' door. 

And there they lighted down. 

" Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 

" Get up and let me in I — 
Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 

" For this night my fair ladye I've win. 

" mak my bed, lady mother," he says, 

mak it braid and deep ! 
And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, 

And the sounder I will sleep." 

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 

Lady Marg'ret lang ere day ; 
And all true lovers that go thegither. 

May they have mair luck than they ! 

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, 

Lady Marg'ret in Mary's quire ; 
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 

And out o' the knight's a brier. 

And they twa met, and they twa plat. 

And fain they wad be near ; 
And a' the warld might ken right weel, 

They were twa lovers dear. 

But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 

And wow but he was rough ! 
For he pulled up the bonny brier. 

And flang'd in St. Mary's loch. 

Anonymous. 



Corb Hanbal. 

" Oh where hae ye been. Lord Randal, my son ? 
Oh where hae ye been, my handsome young man ? " 
" I hae been to the wild wood ; mother, make my 

bwl soon, 
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 



THE CRUEL SISTER. 



493 



" Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my 

son? 
Where gat ye your dmner, my handsome young 

man ? " 
" I dined wi" my true-lore ; mother, make my bed 

soon, 
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."' 

" What gat ye to your dinner. Lord Randal, my 
son? 

What gat ye to youi- dinner, my handsome young- 
man ? '' 

" I gat eels boiled in broo ; mother, make my bed 
soon, 

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 

" What became of your bloodhounds. Lord Randal, 

my son ? 
What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome 

Touns^ man ? '' 
" Oh they swelled and they died ; mother, make my 

bed soon, 
For I'm w eary wi* hunting, and fain wald lie down.'" 

'* Oh I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son 1 
Oh I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young 

man I " 
*' Oh yes I 1 am poisoned : mother, make my bed 

soon, 
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down."" 

AxoxT3iors. 



Z\)t Crticl Sister. 

There were two sisters sat in a bour, 

Binnorie. Binnorie ; 
There came a knight to be their wooer ; 
By the honny miUdains of Binnorie, 

He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 

Binnorie, Binnorie : 
But he lo'ed the youngest abmie a' thing ; 
By the honny miUdams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with broach and knife, 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



The eldest she was vexed sair, 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And sore envied her sister fair ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest said to the youngest ane, 

Binnorie, Binnorie; 
" Will ye go and see our father's ships come in ? " 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

She "s ta'en her by the lily hand, 

Binnorie, Binnorie; 
And led her down to the river strand ; 
By the lonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The youngest stude upon a stane, 
Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
The eldest came and pushed her in ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie, 

She took her by the middle sma', 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And dashed her bonny back to the jaw ; 
By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 

" sister, sister, reach your hand, 
Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And ye shall be heir of half my land." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" sister, I'll not reach my hand, 
Binnorie, Binnorie; 
And 1'n be heir of all your land : 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Shame fa' the hand that I should take, 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
It's twined me and my world's make." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" sister, reach me but your glove, 

Binnorie. Binnorie : 
And sweet William shall be your love." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Sink on. nor hope for hand or glove ! 

Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
And sweet William shall better be my love, 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



494 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


" Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair. 


He brought it to her father's hall. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Bin7iorie, Binnorie ; 


Garred me gang maiden evermair." 


And there was the court assembled all ; 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, 


He laid his harp upon a stone, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Until she cam to the miller's dam : 


And straight it began to play alone : 


By the ionny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


" father, father, draw your dam ! 


" Oh yonder sits my father, the king. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


There 's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." 


And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; " 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


The miller hasted and drew his dam, 


" And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


And there he found a drowned woman ; 


And by him my William, sweet and true." 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


You could not see her yellow hair, 


But the last tune that the harp played then, 


Binnoj'ie, Binnorie ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


For gowd and pearls that were so rare ; 


Was — " "Woe to my sister, false Helen ! " 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 




Anontmous. 


You could not see her middle sma', 




Binnorie, Binnorie ; 




Her gowden girdle was sae bra' ; 

By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


Oroarb, QrbtDarb. 


A famous harper passing by, 


" QuHY dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, 

Edward, Edward? 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
The sweet pale face he chanced to spy ; 


Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, 
And quhy sae sad gang zee oh % " 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


" Oh I hae killed my hauke sae guid. 


And when he looked that lady on, 


Mither, mither : 
Oh I hae killed my hauk sae guid. 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 
He sighed and made a heavy moan ; 


And I had nae mair bot hee oh." 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


" Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid. 




Edward, Edward : 


He made a harp of her breast-bone, 


Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid — 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


My deir son, I tell thee oh." 


Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone ; 


" Oh 1 hae killed my reid-roan steid. 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie, 


Mither, mither: 




Oh I hae killed my reid-roan steid. 


The strings he framed of her yellow hair. 


That erst was sae fair and free oh." 


Binnorie, Binnorie — 




Whose notes made sad the listening ear ; 


" Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, 


By the honny milldams of Binnorie. 


Edward, Edward : 

1 



THE TWA BROTHERS. 



495 



Zour steid was auld, and ze hae got mair — 

Sum other dnle ze drie oh." 
" Oh 1 hae killed my fader deir, 

Mither, mither: 
Oh I hae killed my fader deir — 

Alas ! and wae is mee oh ! " 

" And quhatten penance will ze drie for that, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that ? 

My deir son, now tell me oh." 
" He set my feit in zonder boat, 

Mither, mither: 
He set my feit in zonder boat. 

And He fare ovir the sea oh." 

" And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour 
ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour 
ha'. 

That were sae fair to see oh f " 
" He let thame stand til they doun fa', 

Mither, mither : 
He let thame stand til they doun fa'. 

For here nevir mair maun I bee oh." 

" And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour 
wife, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour 
wife, 

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea oh ? " 
" The warldis room — late them beg throw life, 

Mither, mither : 
The warldis room — late them beg throw life, 
For thame nevir mair wul I see oh." 

"And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir ? 

My deir son, now tell me oh." 
" The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir — 
Sic counseils ze gave to me oh." 

Anonymous. 



There were twa brothers at the scule, 

And when they got awa', 
" It 's will ye play at the stane-chucking, 

Or will ye play at the ba' ? 
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 

And there we'll warsel a fa' ? " 

" I winna play at the stane-chucking, 

ISTor will I play at the ba' ; 
But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, 

And there we'll warsel a fa' ? " 

They warsled up, they warsled down, 

Till John fell to the ground ; 
A dirk fell out of William's pouch, 

And gave John a deadly wound. 

" Oh lift me upon your back — 

Take me to yon well fair ; 
And wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, 

And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's lifted his brother upon his back, 

Ta'en him to yon well fair ; 
He 's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er. 

But they bleed ay mair and mair. 

" Take ye aff my Holland sark, 

And rive it gair by gair, 
And row it in my bluidy wounds. 

And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." 

He 's taken aff his Holland sark, 

And torn it gair by gair ; 
He 's row it in his bluidy wounds. 

But they bleed ay mair and mair. 

" Tak now aff my green cleiding, 

And row me saftly in ; 
And tak me up to yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green." 

He 's taken aff the green cleiding, 

And rowed him saftly in ; 
He 's laid him down by yon kirk style, 

Whare the grass grows fair and green. 



496 POEMS OF TRAGEDY A:ND SORROW. 


" What will ye say to your father dear, 




When ye gae hame at e'en?" 


2^l)e ®tDa Corbic0. 


" I'll say ye 're lymg at yon kirk style, 
Whare the grass grows fair and green." 


As I gaed doun by yon house-en' 

Twa corbies there were sittan their lane : 


" Oh no, oh no, my brother dear, 


The tane unto the tother sae. 


Oh you must not say so ; 


" Oh where shall we gae dine to-day f " 


But say that I am gane to a foreign land 




Where nae man does me know." 


" Oh down beside yon new-faun birk 


When he sat in his fathers chair, 

He grew baith pale and wan ; 
" Oh what blude 's that upon your brow, 


There lies a new-slain knicht ; 

Nae livin kens that he lies there, 

But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. 


dear son, tell to me." 
" It is the blude o' my gude gray steed — 
He wadna ride wi' me." 


" His horse is to the huntin gane. 

His hounds to bring the wild deer hame ; 

His lady 's taen another mate ; 


" Oh thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red, 


Sae we may make our dinner swate. 


Nor e'er sae dear to me. 




Oh what blude 's this upon your cheek ? 


" Oh we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, 


dear son, tell to me." 


And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey een ; 


" It is the blude of my greyhound — 


Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 


He wadna hunt for me." 


We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. 


." Oh thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red, 

Xor e'er sae dear to me. 
Oh what blude 's this upon your hand ? 

dear son, tell to me." 
" It is the blude of my gay goss-hawk — 


" Mony a ane for him maks mane. 
But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 
Ower his banes, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair I " 


He wadna flee for me." 


AXOXTMOUS. 


'' Oh thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red, 




Xor e'er sae dear to me. 
Oh what blude 's this upon your dirk ? 


Bonnie (Bcorgc (tampbcll. 


Dear Willie, tell to me." 
" It is the blude of my ae brother, 
Oh dule and wae is me ! " 


Hie upon Hielands, 

And low upon Tar, 
Bonnie George Campbell 


" Oh what will ye say to your father % 


Bade out on a day. 


Dear Willie, tell to me." 


Saddled and bridled 


" ni saddle my steed, and awa' I'll ride 


And gallant rade he ; 


To dwell in some far countrie." 


Hame cam his gude horse, 


" Oh when will ye come hame again ? 


But never cam he ! 


Dear Willie, tell to me." 
"When sun and mune leap on yon hill — 
And that will never be." 


Out cam his auld mither, 

Greeting fu' sair ; 
And out cam his bonnie bride, 


She turned hersel' right round about, 


Rivin' her hair. 


And her heart burst into three ; 


Saddled and bridled 


" My ae best son is deid and gane. 


And booted rade he ; 


And my tother ane I'll ne'er see." 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


Anonvhous, 


But never cam he ! 



M'PHERSON'^ 


' FARE\IELL. 497 


'' My meadow lies green, 




And my corn is unshorn ; 


ilVpi)ers0n's i^arctoeU. 


My barn is to big, 




And my baby 's unborn." 


" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 


Saddled and bridled 


The wretch's destinie ! 


And booted rade he ; 


M'Pherson's time will not be long 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


On yonder gallows-tree. " 


But never cam he ! 


Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 


A ■VO'WVMDTTS 


Sae dauntingly gaed Tie ; 


• 


He play'd a spring, and danc'd it rou7id, 




Below the gallows-tree. 


Cantent of \\)z jBorbcr iDibowj. 


" 0, what is death but parting breath ? 




On many a bloody plain 


My love he built me a bonny bower, 


I've dar'd his face, and in this place 


And clad it a' wi' lilye flour ; 


I scorn him yet again ! 


A brawer bower ye ne'er did see 




Than my true love he built for me. 


" Untie these bands from off my hands, 




And bring to me my sword ; 


There came a man, by middle day ; 


And there 's no a man in all Scotland, 


He spied his sport, and went away ; 


Bat I'll brave him at a word. 


And brought the king that very night, 




Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 


" I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 




I die by treacherie : 


He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 


It burns my heart I must depart, 


He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear ; 


And not avenged be. 


My servants all for life did flee, 




And left me in extremitie. 


" Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 




And all beneath the sky ! 


I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 


May coward shame distain his name, 


I watched the corpse, myself alane ; 


The wretch that dares not die ! " 


I watched his body, night and day ; 


Sae rantingly, sae ivantonly, 


No living creature came that way. 


Sae dauntingly gaed lie ; 




He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 


I tuk his body on my back. 


Below the gallows-tree. 


And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 


EoBEKT Burns. 


I digged a grave, and laid him in. 




And happed him with the sod sae green. 






£a\x jgelcn. 


But think na ye my heart was sair. 


J 


When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 


I WISH I were where Helen lies ; 


Oh think na ye my heart was wae. 


Night and day on me she cries. 


When I turned about, away to gae •? 


Oh that I were where Helen lies, 




On fair Kirconnell lee ! 


Nae living man I'll love again. 




Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 


Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 


Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 


And curst the hand that fired the shot, 


I'll chain my heart for evermair. 


When in my arms burd Helen dropt. 


Anonymous. 


And died to succour me ! 


S4 





498 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Oh think na ye mv heart was sair, 
When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ? 
There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 
On fair Kirconnell lee. 

As I went down the water side, 
None but my foe to be my guide — 
None but my foe to be my guide. 
On fair Kii'conuell lee — 

I lighted down my sword to draw ; 
I hacked him in pieces sma' — 
I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
For her sake that died for me. 

Helen fair, beyond compare, 
I'll make a garland of thy hair, 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I die ! 

Oil that 1 were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise — 
Says, " Haste and come to me ! " 

Helen fair ! Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee I were blest. 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. 

On fair Kirconnell lee. 

1 wish my grave were growing gi"een, 
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een. 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 

On fair Kirconnell lee. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
And I am weary of the skies. 
For her sake that died for me. 

Anonymous. 



Sang. 

" Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, 
And all alone went she. 



The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand. 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land. 
And never home came she. 

" Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
0' drowned maiden's hair — 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam — 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam — 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands o' Dee. 

Charles Kingslet. 



6ol)rab anb tlustum. 

AxD the first gray of morning filled the east, 

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream ; 

But all the Tartar camp along the stream 

Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in 

sleep. 
Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night along 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword. 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which 

stood. 
Clustering like bee-hives, on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer floods overflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere : 
Through the black tents he passed, o'er that low 

strand. 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink, the spot where first a 

boat, 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
The men of former times had crowned the top 



SOHRAB AXD RUSTUJl. 



499 



With a clay f oit. But that was fallen ; and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths ; and o'er it felts were spread, 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent, 
And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts ; and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
Was dulled ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : 

'• "^Tio art thou f for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak I is there news, or any night alarm ? " 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : 
'* Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ; it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep ; but I sleep not. All night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful ; and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
In Samarcand, before the army marched ; 
And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
Thou knowest if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and sliown, 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This, too, thou know'st., that while I still bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world. 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man. one man, and one alone — 
Rustum, my father ; who, I hoped, should greet, 
Should one day greet upon some well-fought field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me. man to man. If I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one. claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common fight, 
Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; 
But of a single combat fame speaks clear." 

He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said : 

" Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs. 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk. 



To find a father thou hast never seen i 

That were far best, my son, to stay with us 

Unmurmuring — in our tents, while it is war ; 

And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 

But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 

To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ; 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms — 

Sohrab, carry an un wounded son ! 

But far hence seek him ; for he is not here. 

For now it is not as when I was young. 

When Rustum was in front of every fray : 

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 

In Siestan, with Zal. his father old : 

Whether that his own mighty strength at last 

Feels the abhorred approaches of old age ; 

Or in some quarrel with the Persian king. 

There go. — Thou wilt not ? yet my heart forebodes 

Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 

To us — fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 

To seek thy father, not seek single fights 

In vain. But who can keep the lion's cub 

From ravening ? and who govern Rustum's son f 

Go ! I will grant thee what thy heart desires." 

So said he. and dropped Sohrab's hand, and left 
His bed. and the warm rugs whereon he lav : 
And o'er his chilly limbs his woolen coat 
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet. 
And threw a white cloak round him ; and he took 
In his right hand a iiiler's staff, no sword : 
And on his head he placed his sheep-skin cap — 
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul : 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands ; 
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain: so Haraan bade — 
Haman, who, next to Peran-Wisa, ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, they 

streamed : 
As when, some gray Xovember morn, the files. 
In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes. 
Stream over Casbin. and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz. from the Aralian estuaries. 
Or some f rore Caspian reed-bed — southward bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board : so they streamed — 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the king's guard, 



500 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 



First, with black sheep-skin caps, and with long 

spears ; 
Large men, hirge steeds ; who from Bokhara come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
Xext the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 
The Tukas. and the lances of Salore, 
And those from Attnick and the Caspian sands — 
Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
From far, and a more doubtful service owned — 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes — men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
Kalmuks and unkemped Kuzzaks. tribes who stray 
Xearest the pole : and wandering Kirghizes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pa mere. 
These all filed out from camp into the plain, 
And on the other side the Persians formed : 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seemed, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan : and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot. 
Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steel. 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. 
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
And when Ferood. who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 
He took his spear, and to the front he came 
And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they 

stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betv\'ixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — 

" Ferood. and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion, Sohrab. man to man." 

As, in the country, on a morn in June. 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran. 
Of pride and hope for bohrab, whom they loved. 

But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus. 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow, 
Winding so high that, as they mount, they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 



Choked by the air: and scarce can they themselves 
Slake their parched throats with sugared mulber- 
ries — 
In single file they move, and stop their breath, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 

snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 

And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
To counsel. Gudurz and Zoarrah came ; 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the king ; 
These came and counselled ; and then Gudurz 
said : — 
" Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up. 
Yet champion have we none to match this youth ; 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits, 
And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart : 
Him will T seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their challenge 
up." 
So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and said : — 
" Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. 
Let Sohrab arm, and we Avill find a man." 
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran. 
And crossed the camp which lay behind, and 

reached. 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
Just pitched. The high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum's ; and his men lay camped around. 
And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum. His morning meal was done ; but still 
The table stood beside him, charged with food — 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
And dark-green melons. And there Rustum sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist. 
And played with it ; but Gudurz came and stood 
Before him ; and he looked and saw him stand; 
And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird, 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said : — 
" Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
What news? But sit down first, and eat and 
drink." 
But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said: — 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



501 



" Not now. A time will come to eat and drink, 
But not to-day : to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou know'st his 

name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart, 
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose." 

He spoke. But Rustum answered with a smile : — 

" Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then 1 
Am older. If the young are weak, the king 
Errs strangely ; for the king, for Kai-Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger men. 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? 
For would that I myself had such a son. 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And 1 to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds ; 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go^ and hang ray armor up. 
And with my great name fence that weak old man, 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
And I'est my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. 
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no 
more." 

He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made re- 
ply:— 

•' ^\niat then, Rustum, will men say to this. 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all ; and thou, whom most he seeks, 
Hidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should say. 
Like some old miser Rustum hoards his fame, 
Arid shuns to peril it with younger men." 

And. greatly moved, then Rustum made re- 
ply:- 

" Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words f 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed. 



Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? 

Are not they mortal? Am not I myself? 

But who for men of nought would do great deeds ? 

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame. 

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arras. 

Let not raen say of Rustum, he was matched 

In single fight with any raortal raan." 

He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned and 
ran 
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and called 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms. 
And clad himself in steel. The arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device ; 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold ; 
And from the fluted spine, atop, a plume 
Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair plume. 
So armed, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse. 
Followed him, like a faithful hound, at heel — 
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the 

earth — 
The horse whom Rustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find, 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home 
And reared him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green 
Crusted with gold ; and on the ground were worlced 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. 
So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed 
The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hailed : but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of his lYdlQ Avife, Avho waits and weeps on shore. 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf — 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night. 
Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced : 
And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and came. 
And as a-fiekl the reapers cut a swathe 
Down through the middle of a rich man's corn. 
And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare : 
So on each side were squares of raen, with spears 
Bristling ; and in the raidst the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 



502 



poejis of tragedy and sorrow. 



His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and sa^v 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
Who with numb-blackened fingers makes her 

fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn. 
When the frost fl.owers the whitened window- 
panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be : so Rustum eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
Came seekino: Rustum. and defvin^ forth 
All the most valiant chiefs. Long he perused 
His spirited air, and wondered who he was. 
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 

straight, 
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. 
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming ; and he stood. 
And beckoned to him with his hand, and said: — 

" Oh. thou young man, the air of heaven is soft, 
And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
Behold me : I am vast, and clad in iron. 
And tried ; and 1 have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe; 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? 
Be governed : quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die. 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 

So he spake mildly. Sohrab heard his voice. 
The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand — 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Has builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers : and he saw that head. 
Streaked with its first gray hairs. Hope filled his 

soul ; 
And he ran forward and embraced his knees, 
And clasped his hand within his own and said: — 

" Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
Art thou not Rustum ? Speak ! art thou not he ?" 



But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth. 
And turned away, and spoke to his own soul : — 

" Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean. 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if 1 now confess this thmg he asks. 
And hide it not, but say — Rustum is here — 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes. 
But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts — 
A belt or sword perhaps — and go his way. 
And on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall, 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — 
' I challenged once, when the two armies camped 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
Shrank ; only Rustum dared. Then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.' 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me." 
And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud : — 
'' Rise ! Wherefore dost thou vainly question 
thus 
Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast called 
By challenge forth. Make good thy vaunt, or yield. 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee. 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were revealed, 
There would be then no talk of figiiting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul — 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield ; 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, 
Oxus in summer, wash them all away." 
He spoke; and Sohrab answered, on his feet : — 
" Art thou so fierce f Thou wilt not fright me so. 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well : did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin ! Thou art more vast, more dread, than I ; 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — 
But yet success sways with the breath of heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea. 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall ; 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



503 



And whether it will heave us up to land, 

Or whether it will roll us out to sea — 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death — 

We know not, and no search will make us know ; 

Only the event will teach us in its hour." 

He spake ; and Rustum answered not, but hurled 
His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it 

came — 
As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk, 
That long has towered in the airy clouds, 
Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come. 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear 
Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, 
Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp 

rang 
The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
Could wield — an unlapped trunk it was, and huge, 
Still rough ; like those which men, in treeless 

plains, 
To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so 

huge 
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's 

hand. 
And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the 

sand. 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; 
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword ; 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 
" Thou strik'st too hard ; that club of thine will 

float 
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I. 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
Thou say est thou art not Rustum ; be it so. 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul •? 
Boy as 1 am, I have seen battles too ; 
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 



And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
But never was my heart thus touched before. 
Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart ? 
thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand. 
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends ; 
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
May'st fight : fight them, when they confront thy 

spear. 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! " 
He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had 

risen. 
And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club 
He left to lie, but had regained his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand 
Blazed bright and baleful — like that autumn star. 
The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled 
His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. 
His breast heaved ; his lips foamed ; and twice his 

voice 
Was choked with rage. At last these words broke 

way : — 
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy 

hands ! 
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight ! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to 

dance ; 
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
And cunning ; all the pity I had is gone ; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the 

hosts, 
With thy light skipping tricks,, and thy girl's 

wiles." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 
And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed 
Together ; as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
One from the east, one from the west. Their 

shields 



;04 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 



Dashed with a clang together ; and a din 

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 

Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 

Of hewing axes, crashing trees ; such blows 

Rustuin apd Sohrab on each other hailed. 

And you would say that sun and stars took part 

I.i that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 

Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun 

Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose 

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 

In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they 

alone ; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 
And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the 

shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin : 
And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustam's helm 
Xor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest 
He shore away ; and that proud horse-hair plume, 
Xever till now defiled, sunk to the dust ; 
And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom 
Grew Ijhicker ; thunder rumbled in the air. 
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the 

horse, 
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. 
Xo horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
Of some pained desert lion, who all day 
Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, 
And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
The two hosts heai'd the cry, and quaked for fear ; 
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not — but rushed 

on. 
And struck again ; and again Rustum bowed 
His head. But this time all the blade, like glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm. 
And in his hand the hilt remained alone. 
Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear. 
And siiouted " Rustum ! " Sohrab heard that shout. 
And shrank amazed ; back he recoiled one step. 
And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing 

form ; 



And then he stood bewildered ; and he dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 
He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell. 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair — 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 
And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand, 
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
■• Sohrab, thou ihoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent ; 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then all the Tartar host would praisa 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool I thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." 
And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied : — 
" Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
Xo I Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I matched with ten such men as thou, 
And I were he who till to-day I was. 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Wliich troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall : and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. 
And now thou boastest. and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man — tremble to hear ! 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
He shall avenge my death, anJ punish thee !" 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake, 
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose. 
And followed her to find her where she fell 
Far off : — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 



SOHRAB AND RUSTU3L 



505 



In some far stony gorge out of his ken — 

A heap of fluttering feathers. Never more 

Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 

Never the black and dripping precipices 

Echo her stormy scream, as she sails by. 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss — 

So Rustum knew not his own loss ; but stood 

Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

But Avith a cold, incredulous voice, he said : — 
" What prate is this of fathers and revenge f 
The mighty Rustum never had a son." 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
" Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear — 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long. 
Somewhere, 1 know not where, but far from here ; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee — 
Fierce man, bethink thee — for an only son ! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ! 
Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows gray 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. 
With spoils and honor, when the war is done, 
But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 

He spoke ; and as he ceased he wept aloud, 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke ; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he called back names he 

knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should take the boy, to train in arms ; 
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, 
By a false boast, the style of Rustura's son ; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deemed he ; yet he listened, plunged in thought ; 



And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon. Tears gathered in his eyes ; 
For he remembered his own early youth. 
And all its bounding rapture. As, at dawn, 
The shepherd from his mountain lodge descries 
A far bright city, smitten by the sun. 
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
And that old king, her father, who loved well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. 
They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth, 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass : so Sohrab lay, 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : 

" Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have 

loved ! 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. 
For Rustum had no son. One child he had — 
But one — a girl; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us; 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor Avar." 

But Sohrab answered him in wrath ; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, 
And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
And let the blood flow free, and so to die. 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : 

" Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying meri ; 
And falsehood, Avhile 1 lived, was far from mine. 
1 tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore." 

He spoke : and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks ; 
And his knees tottered ; and he smote his hand . 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 



506 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW 



That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud ; 
And to his heart he pressed the other hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : 

" Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." 

Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. 
An emperor's gift ; at early morn he paints. 
And all day long ; and, when night comes, the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands : 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab's arm — the sign of Rustum's seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. 
Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm. 
And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, 
And then he touched it with his hand and said : 

" How sayest thou ? Is tha.t sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's ? " 

He spoke : but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and 
stood 
Speechless ; and then he uttered one sharp cry — 
"0, boy — thy father!" — and his voice choked 

there, 
And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. 
And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life. And lire 
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around, 
And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 
And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast, 
And his sobs choked him ; and he clutched his 

sword 
To draw it. and for ever let life out. 
But Solirab saw his thought, and held his hands; 
And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said: 

" Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom that at my birth was written do^vn 



In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, 
I know it. But fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 
The strife, and hurled me on ray father's spear. 
But let us speak no more of this — I find 
My father ; let me feel that I have found. 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. 
And wash them with thy tears, and say, ' My son ! ' 
Quick ! quick ! for numbered are my sands of life. 
And swift ; for like the liglitning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in heaven that this should be." 

So said he : and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts 
When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the 

horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe, 
First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate 

eyes, 
The big. warm tears rolled down, and caked the 

sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : 

" Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but^ Ruksh, thy 
feet 
Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field." 

But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said : 

" Is this then Ruksh ? How often, in past days, 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed — 
My terriV)le father's terrible horse ! and said 
That T should one day find thy lord and tliee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. 
Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I : 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go. 
And snuffed the breezes of my father's home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of SeTstan, 
And seen the river of Helmund. and tlie lake 
Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food — 
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine — 



SOHRAB AND RUSTU3L 



507 



And. said — • Ruksh ! bear Rustum T\-ell ! ' But I 
Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, 
Xor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Xor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream ; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 
Airasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 
The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream — 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 

And, "with a heavy groan, Rustum replied : 
" Oh that its waves were flowing over me ! 
Oh that I saw^ its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! " 
And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied : 
" Desire not that, my father ! Thou must live ; 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live ; 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds 1 die too young to do, 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! 
Let me entreat for them — what have they done ? 
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them. 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me — 
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
That GO the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and say : 
Sohrab, the miglity Rustum's son, lies there. 
Whom his great father did in ignorance TciU — 
And I be not forgotten in my grave." 

And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : 
" Fear not I as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son. 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents. 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee. 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 



And plant a far-seen pillar over all ; 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave ; 
And I will spare thy host — yea, let them go — 
Let them all cross the Oxus back m peace. 
What should I do with slaying any more ? 
For would that all whom I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive — my bitterest foes, 
And they who were called champions in their 

time. 
And through whose death I won that fame I 

have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown ; 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
Or rather, would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Xear death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. 
Xot thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
And say — son, I weep thee not too sore, 
For wiUingJy, I know, thou mefst thine end ! — 
But now in blood and battles was my youth. 
And full of blood and battles is my age ; 
And I shall never end this life of blood." 

Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 
" A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, 
Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that day 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt, blue sea. 
From laying thy dear master in his grave." 

And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and 
said : — 
" Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." 

He spoke : and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish. But the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flowed with the stream ; all down his cold white 

side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled — 
Like the soiled tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank 
By romping children, whom their nurses call 
From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped 
low; 



508 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 



His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — 
White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps. 
Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, 
And fixed them feebly on his father's face. 
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his 

limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 
And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. 

So, on the bloody sand. Sohrab lay dead. 
And the great Rust am drew his horseman's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite pillars, once high-reared 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night, 
Crept from the Oxus, Soon a hum arose. 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal ; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge. 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land. 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, 
Under the solitary moon. He flowed 
Riglit for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large. Then sands 

begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. 
And split his currents — that for many a league 
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand, and matted, rushy isles — 
Oxus forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere — 
A foiled, circuitous wanderer. Till at last 
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed 

stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

Matthew Arnold. 



JDcebalus. 

Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest ! 

All that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest. 

Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave ! 

Statues, bend your heads in sorrow. 

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old, 
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow, 

On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! 

By sculptured cave and speaking river, 
Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; 

The leaves with a sound of winter quiver. 
Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 

Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest 
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye. 

Though, Dipdalus, thou no more comraandest 
Xew stars to that ever-widening sky. 

Ever thy phantoms arise before us. 
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; 

By bed and table they lord it o'er us. 

With looks of beauty, and words of good. 

Calmly they show us mankind victorious 
O'er all that is aimless, blind, and base ; 

Their presence has made our nature glorious, 
Unveiling our night's illumined face. 

Thy toil has w^on them a god-like quiet ; 

Thou hast wrought their path to a 
sphere ; 
Their eyes to peace rebuke our riot, 

And shape us a home of refuge here. 

For D.pdalus breathed in them his spirit ; 

In them their sire his beauty sees ; 
We too. a younger brood, inherit 

The gifts and blessing bestowed on these. 

But ah ! their wise and graceful seeming. 
Recalls the more that the sage is gone ; 

Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming. 
And find our voiceless chamber lone. 

Da?dalus, thou from the twilight fleest, 
Which thou with vision hast made so bright, 

And when no more those shapes thou seest, 
Wanting thine eye they lose their light. 



lovely 



IPHIGENEIA ANB AGAMEMNON. 



509 



Even in the noblest of man's creations, 
Those fresh worlds round this old of ours, 

When the seer is gone the oi-phaned nations 
See but the tombs of perished powers. 

Wail for Daedalus, earth and ocean ! 

Stars and sun, lament for him ! 
Ages quake, in strange commotion ! 

All ye realms of life, be dim ! 

Wail for Daedalus, awful voices ! 

From earth's deep centre mankind appall ! 
Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices. 

For he knows that then the mightiest fall. 

John Steklixg. 



Spl)igeneia anb ^gatnentnon. 

Iphigexeia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when all beside the king 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said : 
" father ! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly Avhat the goddess spake ; — old age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
3Iy voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, 
While I was resting on her knee both arms, 
And hitting it to make her mind my words, 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss. 
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus % " 
The father placed his cheek upon her head, 
And tears dropt down it ; but the king of men 
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. 
" father ! sayest thou nothing ? Hearest thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 
When it was inarticulate as theirs, 
And the down deadened it within the nest f " 
He moved her gently from him, silent still ; 
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, 
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs : 
" I thought to have laid down my hair before 
Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed 
Her polished altar with my virgin blood; 
I thought to have selected the white flowers 
To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each 



By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 
Whether, since botli my parents willed the change, 
I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow ; 
And (after these who mind us girls the most) 
Adore our own Athene, that she would 
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes — 
But, father, to see you no more, and see 
Your love, father I go ere I am gone I " 
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, 
Bending his lofty head far over hers, 
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 
He turned away — not far, but silent still. 
She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh. 
So long a silence seemed the approach of death. 
And like it. Once again she raised her voice : 
'•' father ! if the ships are now detained, 
And all your vows move not the gods above. 
When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 
The less to them ; and purer can there be 
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer 
For her dear father's safety and success?" 
A gi'oan that shook him shook not his resolve. 
An aged man now entered, and without 
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist 
Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried : 
" father ! grieve no more : the ships can sail." 

"Walter Savage Laxdok. 



Wc\z C amenta tian for Ctciin. 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are 

barred, 
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling 

heard ; 
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading 

slow, 
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound 

of woe. 
What tower is fallen ? what star is set ? what chief 

comes these bewailing % 
" A tower is fallen, a star is set I Alas ! alas for 

Celin ! " 

Three times they knock — three times they ciy — 

and wide the doors they throw ; 
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; 



510 



POJEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



In gloomy lines they, mustering, stand beneath the 

hollow porch, 
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and 

flaming torch ; 
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is 

wailing, 
For all have heard the misery — " Alas 1 alas for 

Celin ! " 

Him. yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's 
blood — 

'Twas at the solemn jousting — around the nobles 
stood ; 

The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright 
and fair 

Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty 
sight to share ; 

But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are be- 
wailing — 

For he was Granada's darling knight — " Alas ! alas 
for Celin ! " 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, 
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful 

to view ; 
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable 

veil. 
Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their 

doleful tale ; 
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their broth- 

erless bewailing, 
And all the people, far and near, cry — " Alas ! alas 

for Celin!" 

Oh ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple 

pall,— 
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of 

them all ; 
His dark, dark eyes are closed ; his rosy lip is pale : 
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his 

burnished mail ; 
And ever more the hoarse tambour breaks in upon 

their wailing — 
Its sound is like no earthly sound — " Alas I alas 

for Celin 1 " 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands — the Moor 

stands at his door ; 
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is 

weeping sore ; 



Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes 

black they strew 
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, 

and blue ; 
Before each gate the bier stands still — then bursts 

the loud bewailing 
From door and lattice, high and low — " Alas ! alas 

for Celin ! " 

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears 

the people cry — 
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye : 
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that 

nursed him long ago ; 
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she 

well shall know ! 
With one deep shriek, she through doth break, 

when her ears receive their wailing — 

"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — alas! alas for 

Celin ! " 

Anonymous. (Moorish.) 
Translation of J. G. Lockhart. 



^ bn'S iHournful Ballab. 

ox THE SIEGE AXD CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, WHICH, 
IN THE ARABIC LANGUAGE, IS TO THE FOLLOW- 
ING PURPORT : 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In the flre the scroll he threw. 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra's walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. 



511 



That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them there, 
One by one, and two by two. 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor, 
In these words the king before : 
" Wherefore call on us, king ? 
What may mean this gathering ? " 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow — 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtained Alhama's hold." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see : 
" Good king ! thou art justly served — 
Good king ! this thou hast deserved. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" By thee Avere slain, in eAil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
And strangers were received by thee, 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" And for this, king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement ; 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Wo is me, Alhama I 

" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 



Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The monarch's wrath began to rise : 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be. 
The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Alhama's loss displeased — 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish monarch know 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys; 
And if the king his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 
Wo is me, Alhama / 

" Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost ; another, wealth or fame. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
Doubloons a himdred I would pay. 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said. 
They severed from the trunk his head ; 



513 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And to the Alhambra's walls with speed 
'Twas carried, as the king decreed. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 

The sable web of mourning falls ; 

The king weeps as a woman o'er 

His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Anonymous. (Spanish.) 
Translation of Lord Byron. 



®l)e fisliermen. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west — 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town; 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower. 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at 
the shower, 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and 
brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
And the women are watching and wringing their 
hands. 
For those who will never come back to the 
town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley. 



^\)z Prisoner of €l)iUon, 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, liberty, thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom - 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod 

Until his very steps have left a trace, 

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 

By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly enrth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age. 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage : 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed — 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 



THE PRISONER OF CIIILLOX. 



513 



There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain : 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone 
We could not move a single pace ; 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone. 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



IV. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do, and did, my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 



35 



The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 

For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day 

(When day was beautiful to me 

As to young eagles, being free), 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer 's gone — 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad ofEspiing of the sun : 

And thus he was, as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for naught but other's ills ; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But formed to combat with his kind ; . 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy ; but not in chains to pine. 
His spirit withered with their clank ; 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 
But yet I forced it on, to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and wolf ; 
To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 

vr. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, 
A thousand feet in depth below. 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From ChiUon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living graves. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 



r 



514 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW 



I 

J' 



Sounding o'er our heads it knocked. 

And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high, 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked. 
And I have felt it shake, unshocked ; 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined ; 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat ; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears . 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men, 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Xor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument 1 



VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 
]\[ost cherished since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyi'ed father's dearest thought, 
My latest care — for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free — 
He too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withered on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion ; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors, this was woe 

Unmixed with such, but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender, kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mocker)' of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise ; 

For I was sunk in silence, lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

1 listened, but I could not hear — 
I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
I called, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 



THE PRISOy^ER OF CHILLOy. 



515 



And rushed to him : I found him not. 

I only stirred in this black spot ; 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink. 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 

I took that hand which lay so still — 

Alas ! mv own was full as chill : 

I had not strength to stu" or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope, but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well, I never knew. 

First came the loss of light and air, 
And then of darkness too. 

I had no thought, no feeling — none: 

Among the stones I stood a stone ; 

And was scarce conscious what 1 wist, 

As shrubless crags within the mist ; 

For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 

It was not night — it was not day ; 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 

So hateful to my heavy sight ; 

But vacancy absorbing space, 

And fixedness, without a place ; 

There were no stars, no earth, no time, 

Xo check, no change, no good, no crime, 

But silence, and a stirless breath 

Which neither was of life nor death — 

A sea of stagnant idleness, 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 



And mine was thankful till my eyes 

Ean over with the glad surprise. 

And they that moment could not see 

I was the mate of misery ; 

But then, by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track : 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before ; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done ; 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perched as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree — 
A lovely bird with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seemed to say them all for me I 
I never saw its like before — 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
It seemed, like me, to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate ; 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And. cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
. Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird I I could not wish for thine — 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile I — 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal well I knew ; 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone as a solitary cloud. 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate — 
My keepers grew compassionate. 



516 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SOBHOW. 


I know not what had made them so — 


But in it there were three tall trees, 


They were inured to sights of woe ; 


And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 


But so it was — my broken chain 


And by it there were waters flowing. 


With links unfastened did remain ; 


And on it there were young flowers growing 


And it was liberty to stride 


Of gentle breath and hue. 


Along my cell from side to side, 


The fish swam by the castle wall. 


And up and down, and then athwart, 


And they seemed joyous, each and all ; 


And tread it over every part ; 


The eagle rode the rising blast — 


And round the pillars one by one. 


Methought he never flew so fast 


Returning where my walk begun — 


As then to me he seemed to fly ; 


Avoiding only, as I trod, 


And then new tears came in my eye. 


My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


And I felt troubled, and would fain 


For if I thought with heedless tread 


I had not left my recent chain ; 


My step profaned their lowly bed, 


And when I did descend again. 


My breath came gaspingly and thick, 


The darkness of my dim abode 


And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 




It was as is a new-dug grave, 


XII. 


Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 


I made a footing in the wall : 


And yet my glance, too much opprest. 




Had almost need of such a rest. 


It was not therefrom to escape, 




For I had buried one and all 


XIV. 


Who loved me in a human shape ; 


It might be months, or years, or days — 


And the whole earth would henceforth be 


I kept no count, I took no note — 


A -wider prison unto me ; 


I had no hope my eyes to raise. 


No child, no sire, no kin had I, 


And clear them of their dreary mote ; 


No partner in my misery. 


At last came men to set me free, 


I thought of this, and I was glad, 


I asked not why, and recked not where ; 


For thought of them had made me mad ; 


It was at length the same to me, 


But I was curious to ascend 


Fettered or fetterless to be ; 


To my barred windows, and to bend 


1 learned to love despair. 


Once more upon the mountains high 


And thus, when they appeared at last. 


The quiet of a loving eye. 


And all my bonds aside were cast, 




These heavy walls to me had grown 


XIII. 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 




And half I felt as they were come 


I saw them — and they were the same ; 


To tear me from a sacred home. 


They were not changed, like me, in frame ; 


With spiders I had friendship made, 


I saw their thousand years of snow 


1 X " 

And watched them in their sullen trade ; 


On high — their wide, long lake below. 






Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 


And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 


And why should I feel less than they ? 


We were all inmates of one place, 


I saw the white-walled distant town, 


And I, the monarch of each race. 


And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 


Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! 


In quiet we had learned to dwell. 


Which in my very face did smile — 
The onlv one in view : 


My very chains and I grew friends. 


So much a long communion tends 


A small, green isle, it seemed no more, 


To make us what we are — even I 


Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 


Regained my freedom with a sigh. 

Lord Byron. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 



517 



®^l]e Sea. 

Through the night, through the night, 

In the saddest unrest. 
Wrapt in white, all in white. 

With her babe on her breast, 
Walks the mother so pale, 
Staring out on the gale 

Through the night ! 

Through the night, through the night, 
Where the sea lifts the wreck, 

Land in sight, close in sight. 
On the surf -flooded deck 

Stands the father so brave. 

Driving on to his grave 
Through the night ! 

EicHARD Henry Stoddard, 



3^1} e Eing of lUentnark's Elbe. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry ! ) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying ! ) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl ; 

And his rose of the isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry ! ) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 

(Hurry ! ) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward 

gone ; 
His little fair page now follows alone. 



For strength and for courage trying ! 
The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din. 
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in 

Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn ; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn. 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day. 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eyeing. 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" steed — that every nerve didst strain. 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 

Caroline Norton. 



Betl) (^elcrt. 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 

And cheerily smiled the morn ; 
And many a brach, and many a hound, 

Attend Llewelyn's horn. 
And still he blew a louder blast. 

And gave a louder cheer : 
" Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 

Llewelyn's horn to hear ! 
Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam — 

The flower of all his race : 
So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase ? " 

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, 

And sentinelled his bed. 



518 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


In sooth he was a peerless hound, 


What words the parent's joy could tell. 


The gift of royal John ; 


To hear his infant's cry ! 


But now no Geiert could be found, 


Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, 


And all the chase rode on. 


His hurried search had missed, 


And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 


All glowing from his rosy sleep. 


The gallant chidings rise. 


The cherub boy he kissed ! 


All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 


Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, 


The many-mingled cries ! 


But, the same couch beneath. 


That day Llewelyn little loved 
The chase of hart and hare ; 


Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead — 
Tremendous still in death ! 


And scant and small the booty proved, 


Ah ! what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 


For Geiert was not there. 


For now the truth was clear ; 


Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, 


His gallant hound the wolf had slain 


When, near the portal-seat, 


To save Llewelyn's heir. 


His truant Geiert he espied, 


Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe : 


Bounding his lord to greet. 


" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 


But when he gained his castle door, 


The frantic blow which laid thee low. 


Aghast the chieftain stood ; 


This heart shall ever rue ! " 


The hound all o'er was smeared with gore ; 


And now a gallant tomb they raise, 


His lips, his fangs, ran blood I 


With costly sculpture decked ; 




And marbles, storied with his praise, 


Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise, 


Poor Gelert's bones protect. 


Unused such looks to meet ; 




His favorite checked his joyful guise 


There never could the spearman pass 


And crouched and licked his feet. 


Or forester unmoved ; 


Onward in haste Llewelyn passed. 


There oft the tear-besprinlcled grass 


And on went Geiert too ; 


Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 


And still, where'er his eyes were cast, 


And there he hung his horn and spear, 


Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! 


And there, as evening fell. 


O'erturned liis infant's bed he found, 


In fancy's ear he oft would hear 


With blood-stained cover rent. 


Poor Gelert's dying yell. 


And all around, the walls and ground 


And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 


With recent blood besprent. 


And cease the storm to brave. 




The consecrated spot shall hold 


He called his child — no voice replied — 


The name of " Gelert's Grave." 


He searched with terror wild ; 


William Robert Spencer. 


Blood, blood, he found on every side, 




But nowliere found his child ! 




" Hell-hound ! my child 's by thee devoured ! " 
The frantic father cried ; 


£orb UUin s Dmtg liter. 


And to the hilt his vengeful sword 


A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 


He plunged in Gelert's side ! 


Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 


His suppliant looks, as prone he fell. 


And ril give thee a silver pound 


No pity could impart : 


To row us o'er the ferry." 


But still his Gelert's dying yell 
Passed heavy o'er his heart. 


" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water?" 


Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 


" Oh, I'm the chief of TTlva's isle. 


Some slumberer wakened nigh: 

1 


And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 



/ 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 519 

1 


" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together ; 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 


" Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter ! — my daughter ! " 


" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover f " 


'Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return or aid preventing. 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 


Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready. 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady. 


Thomas Campbell. 

0n tl)e £0ss oi tl)e Bogal (george. 


" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace ; 

The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 


WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 

Toll for the brave — 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 


But still as wilder blew the wind. 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 


A land breeze shook the shrouds. 
And she was overset — 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 


" haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 


Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 

His work of glory done. 


The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 


It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 


And still they rowed amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing — 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 


His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 


For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 


Weigh the vessel up. 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 



520 P0E2IS OF TRAGEDY AND SOBEOW. 


Her timbers yet are sound, 


" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 




And she may float again, 


And do not tremble so ; 




Full charged with England's thunder, 


For I can weather the roughest gale 




And plough the distant main. 


That ever wind did blow." 




But Kempenf elt is gone — 


He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 




His victories are o'er ; 


Against the stinging blast ; 




And he and his eight hundred 


He cut a rope from a broken spar, 




Shall plough the waves no more. 


And bound her to the mast. 




William Cowper. 


" father I I hear the church-bells ring ; 

Oh say, what may it be ? " 
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " 




®l)e toreck of tl)e ^e0|jerns. 


And he steered for the open sea. 




It was the schooner Hesperus 


" father ! I hear the sound of guns ; 




That sailed the wintry sea ; 


Oh say, what may it be ? " 




And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 


" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 




To bear him companv. 


In such an angry sea ! " 




Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax. 


" father ! I see a gleaming light ! 




Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 


Oh say, what may it be ? " 




And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 


But the father answered never a word — 




That ope in the month of May. 


A frozen corpse was he. 




The skipper he stood beside the helm ; 


Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 




His pipe was in his mouth ; 


With his face turned to the skies. 




And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 


The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 




The smoke, now west, now south. 


On his fixed and glassy eyes. 




Then up and spake an old sailor. 


Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 




Had sailed the Spanish main : 


That saved she might be ! 




" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 


And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 




For I fear a hurricane. 


On the Lake of Galilee. 




" Last night the moon had a golden ring. 


And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 




And to-night no moon we see ! " 


Through the whistling sleet and snow, 




The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 


Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 




And a scornful laugh laughed he. 


Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 




Colder and louder blew the wind, 


And ever, the fitful gusts between, 




A gale from the northe^ist ; 


A sound came from the land ; 




The snow fell hissing in the brine, 


It was the sound of the trampling surf 




And the billows frothed like yeast. 


On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 




Down came the storm, and smote amain 


The breakers were right beneath her bows ; 




The vessel in its strength ; 


She drifted a dreary wreck ; 




She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, 


And a whooping billow swept the crew, 




Then leaped her cable's length. 


Like icicles, from her deck. 





THE WRECK OF 


THE HESPERUS. 521 


She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool ; 
But the cruel rocks they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 


The sun in heaven shone so gay — 

All things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they sported round, 

And there was pleasure in their sound. 


Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the mast went by the board : 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
Ho I ho I the breakers roared ! 


The float of the Inchcape bell was seen, 
• A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 


At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair. 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 


He felt the cheering power of spring — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 


The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The 'salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 


His eye was on the bell and float : 
Quoth he, " My men, pull out the boat ; 
And row me to the Inchcape rock, 
And I'U plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 


Such was the wi'eck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ; 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 


The boat is lowered, the boatmen row. 
And to the Inchcape rock they go ; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And cut the warning bell from the float. 


Henrt Wadsworth Longfellow. 


Down sank the beU with a gurgling sound ; 
The bubbles rose, and burst around. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock 
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok." 


Xo stir in the air, no stir in the sea — 
The ship was still as she might be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 


Sir Ralph the rover sailed away — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store. 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 


Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape bell. 


So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky. 
They could not see the sun on high ; 
The wind' had blown a gale all day ; 
At evening it hath died away. 


The holy abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock ; 
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung, 
And louder and louder its warning rung. 


On the deck the rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is, they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph. " It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 


When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok. 


" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar ? 
For yonder, methinks. should be the shore. 
Xow where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape beU." 



522 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along : 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock — 
Christ ! it is the Inchcape rock ! 

Robert Southet. 



W^t iHariner's Dream. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the 
wind ; 
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow- 
ers. 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry 
morn ; 
While Memory stood sideways half covered with 
flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in 
the wall ; 

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delisrht ; 
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm 
tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds 
dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 
Joy quickens his pulses — his hardships seem 
o'er; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his 
rest — 
" God ! thou hast blest me — I ask for no 
more." 



Ah I whence is that flame which now bursts on his 
eye? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his 
ear? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the 
sky! 
'Tis the clashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the 
deck; 
Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a 
wreck ; 
The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on 
fire. 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er 
the wave ! 

sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched 
bright — 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed 
kiss? 

sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

Xo tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for 
thee. 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless 
surge. 
But the white foam of waves shall thv winding- 
sheet be, 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be 
laid — 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall 
grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 
And every part suit to thy mansion Ijelow. 



HOW'S MY BOYf 523 


Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away. 


" Every man on board went down, 


And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 


Every man aboard her." 


Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye — 




sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 


. " How 's my boy — my boy ? 


William Dimond. 


What care I for the men, sailor ? 




I'm not their mother — 




How 's my boy — my boy ? 




Tell me of him and no other ! 


^oxd's tng Bos? 


How 's my boy — my boy f " 




Sydney Dobell. 


" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 




How 's my boy — my boy f " 




" What 's your boy's name, good wife, 


^\\z iHoon toas ^-toaning. 


And in what good ship sailed he ? " 


" My boy John — 


The moon was a-waning, 


He that went to sea — 


The tempest was over ; 


What care I for the ship, sailor f 


Fair was the maiden, 


J. 7 

11 T" 1 9 1 J_ 


And fond was the lover ; 


My boy s my boy to me. 






But the snow was so deep 


" You come back from sea, 


That his heart it grew weary ; 


7 

And not know my John ? 


And he sunk down to sleep. 


I might as well have asked some landsman, 


In the moorland so dreary. 


Yonder down in the town. 


Soft was the bed 


There 's not an ass in all the parish 


She had made for her lover, 


But knows my John. 


White were the sheets 




And embroidered the cover ; 


" How 's my boy — my boy ? 


7 

But his sheets are more white, 


And unless you let me know 


* T 1 • ~\ 




And his canopy grander ; 


i 11 swear you are no sailor. 


And sounder he sleeps 


Blue jacket or no — 


Where the hill foxes wander. 


Brass buttons or no, sailor. 




Anchor and crown or no — 


Alas, pretty maiden. 


Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton ' " — 


What sorrows attend you ! 


" Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 


I see you sit shivering. 




With lights at your window ; 


" And why should I speak low, sailor. 


But long may you wait 


About my own boy John? 


Ere your arms shall enclose him ; 


If I was loud as I am proud 


For still, still he lies. 


I\l sing him over the town ! 


With a wreath on his bosom. 


Why should I speak low, sailor ^ " 




" That good ship went down." 


How painful the task 




The sad tidings to tell you ! — 


" How 's my boy — my boy ? 


An orphan you were 


What care I for the ship, sailor — 


Ere this misery befell you ; 


I was never aboard her. 


And far in yon wild, 


Be she afloat or be she aground, 


Where the dead-tapers hover, 


Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 


So cold, cold and wan. 


Her owners can afford her ! 


Lies the corpse of your lover ! 


I say, how 's my John ? " 


James Hogg. 



524 



POEJIS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



(Jom JSotDling. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew : 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For Death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty ; 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful below, he did his duty ; 

But now he 's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted ; 

His Poll was kind and fair. 
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 

When He who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches. 

In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
For, though his body 's under hatches, 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdix. 



®l)e Dream of Qrugcnc '^ram. 

'TwAS in the prime of summer time, 

An evening calm and cool. 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school ; 
There were some that ran and some that leapt 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds 

And souls untouched by sin ; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 
And shouted as they ran, 



Turning to mirth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man ! 

His hat was off, his vest apart, 
To catch Heaven's blessed breeze ; 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease ; 

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 
The book between his knees ! 

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide ; 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strained the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp : 
" God ! could I so close my mind 

And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright. 

Some moody turns he took, 
Now up the mead, then down the mead, 

And past a shady nook. 
And, lo ! he saw a little boy 

That pored upon a book ! 

" My gentle lad, what is 't you read, 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page. 

Of kings and crowns unstable ? " 
The young boy gave an upward glance — 

" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 

The usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place. 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talked with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men. 
Whose deeds tradition saves ; 



THE DREAM OF 


EUGENE ARAM. 525 


And lonely folk cut off unseen, 


Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 


And hid in sudden graves ; 


Were looking down in blame ; 


And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 


I took the dead man by his hand, 


And murders done in caves ; 


And called upon his name ! 


And how the sprites of injured men 


" God ! it made me quake to see 


Shriek upward from the sod ; 


Such sense within the slain ! 


Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 


But when I touched the lifeless clay, 


To show the burial clod ; 


The blood gushed out amain ! 


And unknown facts of guilty acts 


For every clot a burning spot 


Are seen in dreams from God ! 


Was scorching in my brain ! 


He told how murderers walk the earth 


" My head was like an ardent coal, 


Beneath the curse of Cain, 


My heart as solid ice ; 


With crimson clouds before their eyes, 


My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 


And flames about their brain ; 


Was at the devil's price. 


For blood has left upon their souls 


A dozen times I groaned — the dead 


Its everlasting stain ! 


Had never groaned but twice ! 


" And well," quoth he, " I know for truth, 


" And now from forth the frowning sky, 


Their pangs must be extreme — 


From the heaven's topmost height, 


Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 


I heard a voice, the awful voice 


Who spill life's sacred stream ! 


Of the blood-avenging sprite : 


For why *? Methought, last night I wrought 


'Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 


A murder, in a dream ! 


And hide it from my sight ! ' 


" One that had never done me wrong, 


" And I took the dreary body up, 


A feeble man and old ; 


And cast it in a stream — 


I led him to a lonely field — 


The sluggish water black as ink. 


The moon shone clear and cold : 


The depth was so extreme : 


Now here, said I, this man shall die, 


My gentle boy, remember ! this 


And I will have his gold ! 


Is nothing but a dream ! 


" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 


" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge. 


And one with a heavy stone, 


And vanished in the pool ; 


One hurried gash with a hasty knife — 


Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 


And then the deed was done ; 


And washed my forehead cool. 


There was nothing lying at my feet 


And sat among the urchins young. 


But lifeless flesh and bone ! 


That evening in the school. 


" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 


" Heaven ! to think of their white souls. 


That could not do me ill ; 


And mine so black and grim ! 


And yet I feared him all the more, 


I could not share in childish prayer. 


For lying there so still : 


Nor join in evening hymn ; 


There was a manhood in his look, 


Like a devil of the pit I seemed. 


That murder could not kill ! 


'Mid holy cherubim ! 


" And lo ! the universal air 


" And peace went with them, one and all, 


Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; 


And each calm pillow spread ; 



526 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORBOW. 


But guilt was my grim chamberlain, 


As soon as the mid-day task was done. 


That lighted me to bed. 


In secret I was there — 


And drew my midnight curtains round 


And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. 


With fingers bloody red I 


And still the corse was bare ! 


" All night I lay in agony. 


" Then down I cast me on my face, 


In anguish dark and deep : 


And first began to weep. 


My fevered eyes I dared not close, 


For I knew my secret then was one 


But stared aghast at Sleep ; 


That earth refused to keep — 


For sin had rendered unto her 


Or land or sea, though he should be 


The keys of hell to keep I 


Ten thousand fathoms deep. 


" All night I lay in agony, 


" So wills the fierce avenging sprite, 


From weary chime to chime ; 


Till blood for blood atones ! 


With one besetting horrid hint, 


Aye, though he "s buried in a cave, 


That racked me all the time — 


And trodden down with stones. 


A mighty yearning, like the first 


And years have rotted off his flesh. 


Fierce impulse unto crime — 


The world shall see his bones ! 


" One stern tyrannic thought, that made 


" God ! that horrid, horrid dream 


All other thoughts its slave I 


Besets me now awake I 


Stronger and stronger every pulse 


Again, again, with dizzy brain, 


Did that temptation crave, 


The human life I take ; 


Still urging me to go and see 
The dead man in his grave 1 


And my red right hand grows raging hot, 
Like Cranmer's at the stake. 


" Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky. 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye ; 
And 1 saw the dead in the river bed, 

For the faithless stream was dry. 


" And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul — 

It stands before me now I " 
The fearful boy looked up. and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 


" Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
The dew-drop from its wing ; 

But I never marked its morning flight, 
I never heard it sing ; 

For I was stooping once again 
Under the horrid thing. 


That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin's eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from L}mn 

Through the cold and hea^y mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walked between. 

With gyves upon his wrist. 


" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase. 


Thomas Hood. 


I took him up and ran ; 


' 


There was no time to dig a grave 




Before the day began. 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 


Qonng ^irlg. 


I hid the murdered man ! 


Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel? 


" And all that day I read in school, 


Or ken ye aught of Airly ? 
They have belted on their bright broad swords. 


But my thought was other where ; 


And off and awa' wi* Charlie. 



A SKOW-STORM. 



527 



Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men, 

And bring it red and yarely — 
At mirk midnight there flashed a light 

Cer the topmost towers of Airly. 

What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely? 
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, 

It 's my ain bonnie hame of Airly ! 
Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 

And calm your mood, quo' Charlie ; 
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe 

Far brighter than bonnie Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower 's my native tower I 

Nor will it soothe my mourning. 
Were London palace, tower, and town, 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It 's no my hame — my father's hame, 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To smoor in the smoke of Airly. 

Anonymous. 



^ 0n0t»-0tornt. 

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time. 

As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 

Of the waves on an angry sea. 
The moon is full ; but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wiDgs to-night; 
And over the sky from south to north 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 

In the strength of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day 

As it never came down before ; 
And over the hills, at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet, or more ; 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone ; 
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 



The night sets in on a world of snow, 
, While the air grows sharp and chill, 
And the warning roar of a fearful blow 

Is heard on the distant hill ; 
And the norther, see ! on the mountain-peak 
In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 
He shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 

And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad, 

In the drifts and the freezing air, 
Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road. 

With the snow in his shaggy hair. 
He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls; 
Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet. 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet — 

Pray what does the dog do there % 

A farmer came from the village plain — 

But he lost the travelled way ; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down. 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort. 

She plunged in the drifting snow. 
While her master urged, till his breath grew 
short. 

With a word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight ; 
His hands were numb and had lost their might ; 
So he wallowed back to his half -filled sleigh. 
And strove to shelter himself till day. 

With his coat and the buft'alo. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need. 
For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 

And whines when he takes no heed. 



528 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AJS'D SORROW. 



The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er — 

'Tis the hour of midnight, past ; 
The old trees writhe and bend no more 

In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
The silent moon with her peaceful light 
Looks down on the hills with snow all white, 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 

Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead by the hidden log 

Are they who came from the town — 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 

And his beautiful Morgan brown — 
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand — 
The dog with his nose on his ma5;ter*s feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet. 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 

Charles Gajiage Eastman. 



W^t ^untcv's bisian. 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer. 
Rose from the mountain's breast, 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared to the soft summer air 

His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between ; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 
By forests faintly seen ; 

While ever rose a murmuring soimd. 

From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear 

A strain, so soft and low 
That whether in the mind or ear 

The listener scarce might know ; 
With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, 
The watching mother lulls her child. 

" Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, 
" Thou faint with toil and heat. 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet. 



And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
Are waiting there to welcome thee." 

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 

Amid the noontide haze, 
A shadowy region met his eye. 

And grew beneath his gaze, 
As if the vapors of the air 
Had gathered into shapes so fair. 

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 

Showed bright on rocky bank, 
And fountains welled beneath the bowers. 

Where deer and pheasant drank. 
He saw the glittering streams ; he heard 
The rustling bough and twittering bird. 

And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear. 

There lived and walked again ; 
And there was one who many a year 

Within her grave had lain, 
A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 
His heart was breaking when she died. 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
Right towards his resting-place, 

And stretched her hand and called his name, 
With that sweet smiling face. 

Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, 

The hunter leaned in act to rise : 

Foi-ward he leaned — and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall ; 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown 
An instant, in his fall — 

A frightful instant, and no more ; 

The dream and life at once were o'er. 

WlLLLAai CULLEN BrTANT. 



Softlri too0 arortTi l)cr Brcatli. 

Softly woo away her breath, 

Gentle death ! 
Let her leave thee with no strife. 

Tender, mournful, murmuring life ! 
She hath seen her happy day — 

She hath had her bud and blossom : 
Now she pales and shrinks away. 

Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 



THE MAY QUE EX. 



529 



She hath done her bidding here, 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her perfect sonl above, 

Seraph of the skies — sweet love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth ; 

And her mind was seen to soar, 
And her heart was wed to truth : 

Take her, then, for evermore — 

For ever — evermore ! 

Bakrt Coknwau^. 



You must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear ; 
To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 

new-year — 
Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, 

merriest day ; 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

There 's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 
so bright as mine ; 

There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caro- 
line; 

But none so fair as little Alice in aU the land, they 
say: 

So I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 

never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 

break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and 

garlands gay ; 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I 
see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday — 

But I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the Mav, 

36 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white ; 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what 

they say, 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love — but that can 

never be ; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is 

that to me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad '11 woo me any summer 

day; 
And I'm to be queen 0' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

Little Ef&e shall go with me to-morrow to the 

green. 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made 

the queen; 
For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from 

far away ; / 

And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its 

wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the 3Iay, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 

livelong day ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh and green and 

still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 

hill, 



530 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And the rivulet in the flowery dale '11 merrily 

glance and play, 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear. 

To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 
new-year : 

To-morrow '11 be of all the year the maddest, mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
queen o' the May. 

new-year's eve. 

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, 
mother dear. 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new- 
year. 

It is the last new-year that I shall ever see — 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think 
no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set — he set and left be- 
hind 

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 
peace of mind ; 

And the new-year's coming up, mother ; but I shall 
never see 

The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 
tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a 

merry day — 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and in the 

hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills — the frost is 

on the pane ; 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come 

again. 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out 

on high — 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 



The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm- 
tree. 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 
lea. 

And the swallow '11 come back again with summer 
o'er the wave. 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moulder- 
ing grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave 

of mine. 
In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 

shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 

hill — 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the 

world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
waning light 

You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at 
night ; 

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs 
blow cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bul- 
rush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw- 
thorn shade, 

And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am 
lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you 
when you pass. 

With your feet above my head in the long and 
pleasant grass. 

L have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive 

me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek 

and brow ; 
Xay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 

wild; 
You should not fret for me, mother — you have 

another child. 

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my 

resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look 

upon your face ; 



THE MAT QTJEEN, 



531 



Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 

what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm 

far away. 

Good-night ! good-night ! when I have said good- 
night for evermore, 

And you see me carried out from the threshold of 
the door. 

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be 
growing green — 

She'll be a better child to you than ever I have 
been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary 
floor. 

Let her take 'em — they are hers; I shall never 
garden more. 

But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush 
that I set 

About the parlor-window, and the box of migno- 
nette. 

G-ood-night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day 
is born. 

All night I lie awake, but T fall asleep at morn ; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new- 
year — 

So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I 

am; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of 

the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 



vear 



To die before the snowdrop came, and now the 
violet's here. 

Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies; 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise ; 
And sweet is all the land about, and aU the flowers 

that blow ; 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long 

to go. 



It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the 
blessed sun, 

And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His 
will be done ! 

But still I think it can't be long before I find re- 
lease ; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 
words of peace. 

Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver 

hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there I 
Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver 

head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside 

my bed. 

He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all 

the sin ; 
Xow, though my lamp was lighted late, there 's One 

will let me in. 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 

could be ; 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for 

me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
watch beat — 

There came a sweeter token when the night and 
morning meet ; 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand 
in mine. 

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the 



All in the wild March morning I heard the angels 

call — 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark 

was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 

roll, 
And in the wild March morning I heard them call 

my soul. 

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Eflie 

dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer 

here; 



532 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


With all my strength I prayed for both — and so 


Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this 


I felt resigned, 


day is done 


And up the A'alley came a swell of music on the 


The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the 


wind. 


sun — 




For ever and for ever with those just souls and 


I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my 


true — 


bed: 


And what is life, that we should moan ? why make 


And then did something speak to me — I know 


w^e such ado ? 


not what was said ; 




For great delight and shuddering took hold of all 


For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home. 


my mind, 


And there to wait a little while till you and Effie 


And up the valley came again the music on the 


come — 


wind. 


To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 




breast — 


But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for 


And the wicked cease from troubling, and the 


them — it 's mine ; " 


weary are at rest. 


And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it 


Alfred Tennyson. 


for a sign. 




And once again it came, and close besidcthe win- 




dow-bars — 




Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die 


S^omtnti's laytat. 


among the stars. 






You may give over plough, boys, 


So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I 


You may take the gear to the stead, 


know 


All the sweat o' your brow, boys. 


The blessed music went that way my soul will have 


Will never get beer and bread. 


to go. 


The seed 's waste, I know, boys. 


And for myself, indeed, 1 care not if I go to- 


There 's not a blade will grow, boys, 


day; 


'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys. 


But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past 


And Tommy 's dead. 


aw^ay. 


Send the colt to fair, boys. 


And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to 


He 's going blind, as I said, 


fret ; 


My old eyes can't bear, boys, 


There's many worthier than I would make him 


To see him in the shed ; 


happy yet. 


The cow 's dry and spare, boys. 


If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been 


She 's neither here nor there, boys, 


his wife ; 


I doubt she 's badly bred ; 


But all these things have ceased to be, with my 


Stop the mill to-morn, boys. 


desire of life. 


There'll be no more corn, boys. 




Neither white nor red ; 


Oh look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens are 


There 's no sign of grass, boys, 


in a glow ; 


You may sell the goat and the ass, boys. 


He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them 


The land 's not what it was, boys. 


I know. 


And the beasts must be fed : 


And there I move no longer now, and there his 


You may turn Peg away, boys, 


light may shine — 


You may pay off old Ned, 


Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than 


We've had a dull day, boys. 


mine. 


And Tommy 's dead. 



TOMMY 'S DEAD. 



533 



Move my chair on the floor, boys, 

Let me turn my head : 
She 's standing there in the door, boys, 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Take her away from me, boys, 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Move me round in my place, boys, 

Let me turn my head. 
Take her away from me, boys. 

As she lay on her death-bed, 
The bones of her thin face, boys. 

As she lay on her death-bed ! 
I don't know how it be, boys, 

When all 's done and said. 
But I see her looking at me, boys. 

Wherever I turn my head ; 
Out of the big oak-tree, boys. 

Out of the garden-bed. 
And the lily as pale as she, boys. 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There 's something not right, boys. 

But I think it 's not in my head, 
I've kept my precious sight, boys — 

The Lord be hallowed ! 
Oustide and in 

The ground is cold to my tread, 
The hills are wizen and thin, 

The sky is shrivelled and shred. 
The hedges down by the loan 
1 can count them bone by bone, 

The leaves are open and spread, 
But I see the teeth of the land, 
And hands like a dead man's hand. 

And the eyes of a dead man's head. 
There 's nothing but cinders and sand. 

The rat and the mouse have fed, 
And the summer 's empty and cold ; 
Over valley and wold 

Wherever I turn my head 
There 's a mildew and a mould. 

The sun 's going out overhead, 
And I'm very old, 

And Tommy 's dead. 

What am I staying for, boys. 

You 're all born and bred, 
'Tis fifty years and more, boys, 

Since wife and I were w^ed. 



And she 's gone before, boys. 
And Tommy 's dead. 

She was always sweet, boys. 

Upon his curly head. 
She knew she'd never see 't, boys. 

And she stole off to bed ; 
I've been sitting up alone, boys, 

For he'd come home, he said. 
But it 's time I was gone, boys. 

For Tommy 's dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys. 

Bring out the beer and bread. 
Make haste and sup, boys. 

For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 
There 's something wrong i' the cup, boys. 

There 's something ill wi' the bread, 
I don't care to sup, boys, 

And Tommy 's dead. 

I'm not right, I doubt, boys, 

I've such a sleepy head, 
I shall never more be stout, boys. 

You may carry me to bed. 
What are you about, boys. 

The prayers are all said. 
The fire 's raked out, boys, 

And Tommy 's dead ? 

The stairs are too steep, boys. 
You may carry me to the head. 

The night 's dark and deep, boys. 
Your mother 's long in bed, 

'Tis time to go to sleep, boys. 
And Tommy 's dead. 

I'm not used to kiss, boys. 
You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys. 

You may lay me where she is, boys. 
And I'll rest my old head : 

'Tis a poor world, this, boys, 
And Tommy 's dead. 

Sydney Dobell. 



534 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 


(ri]c iXcmpl) Complaining for tt^e Dcatl) 
of t)cr i^aron. 


Had it lived long. I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 
As Sylvio did — his gifts might be 


The Tvanton troopers, riding by, 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 


Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
For I am sure, for aught that I 


Ungentle men I tliev cannot thrive 

Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, 

Them any harm ; alas I nor could 


Could in so short a time espy. 
Thy love was far more better than 
The love of false and cruel man. 


Thy death yet do them any good. 
I'm sure I never wished them ill — 


With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 
1 it at mine own fingers nursed ; 


Xor do 1 for all this, nor will ; 
But, if ray simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 


And as it grew, so eveiy day 

It waxed more white and sweet than they. 

It had so sweet a breath I and oft 


Thy murder, I will join my tears, 


I blushed to see its foot more soft 


Rather than fail. But, oh my fears ! 


And white — shall I say than my hand ? 


It cannot die so. Heaven's King 


Xay, any lady's of the land. 


Keeps register of every thing ; 
And nothing may we use in vain ; 


It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
'Twas on those little silver feet ! 


Even beasts must be with justice slain — 
Else men are made their deodands. 


With what a pretty, skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race ! 


Though they should wash their guilty hands 


And when 't had left me far away. 


In this warm life-blood, which doth part 
From thine and wound me to the heart, 


'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds, 


Yet could they not be clean — their stain 


And trod as if on the four winds. 


Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 
There is not such another in 
The world to offer for their sin. 


I have a garden of my own — 
But so with roses overgrown, 
And lilies, that you would it guess 


Inconstant Sylvio I when yet 


To be a little wilderness : 


I had not found him counterfeit. 


And all the spring-time of the year 


One morning (1 remember well), 
Tied in this silver chain and bell, 
Gave it to me ; nay, and I know 


It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie 


What he said then — Fm sure I do : 


Yet could not, till itself would rise. 


Said he, '• Look how your huntsman here 


Find it, although before mine eyes ; 


Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer I " 


For in the flaxen lilies' shade 


• But Sylvio soon had me beguiled — 


It like a bank of lilies laid. 


This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 
And. quite regardless of my smart. 
Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 


Upon the roses it would feed. 
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed; 
And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 


Thenceforth, I set myself to play 
Mv solitary time awav, 


And print those roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 


With this ; and, very well content. 


On roses thus itself to fill : 


Could so mine idle life have spent. 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot and heart, and did invite 


And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 

Had it lived long, it would have been 


Me to its game. It seemed to bless 
Itself in me : how could I less 
Than love it ? Oh I cannot be 
Unkind t' a l3east that loveth me. 


Lilie3 without, roses within. 

Oh help I oh help I I see it faint, 
And die as calmly as a saint I 
See how it weeps ! the tears do come 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. 535 


Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 


And standing by her side was one 


So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 


Who strove, and not in vain. 


The holy frankincense doth flow ; 


To soothe her, leaving that dear home 


The brotherless Heliades 


She ne'er might view again. 


Melt in such amber tears as these. 


I saw her but a moment, 


I in a golden vial will 


Yet methinks I see her now, 


Keep these two crystal tears ; and fill 


With the wreath of orange-blossoms 


It. till it do o'erflow, with mine ; 


Upon her snowy brow. 


Then place it in Diana's shrine. 




Xow my sweet fawn is vanished to 


And once again I see that brow, 


Whither the swans and turtles go ; 


Xo bridal-wreath is there ; 


In fair Elysium to endure. 


The widow's sombre cap conceals 


With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 


Her once luxuriant hair. 


Oh do not run too fast ! for I 


She weeps in silent solitude, 


Will but bespeak thy grare, and die. 


And there is no one near 


First my unhappy statue shall 


To press her hand within his own, 


Be cut in marble ; and withal, 


And wipe away the tear. 


Let it be weeping too ! But there 


I see her broken-hearted ; 


Th' engraver sure his art may spare, 


Yet methinks I see her now, 


For I so truly thee bemoan 


In the pride of youth and beauty, 


That I shall weep though I be stone ; 


With a garland on her brow. 


' Until my tears, still drooping, wear 


Thomas Hatnes Batxt. 


My breast, themselves engraving there, 




There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 




Of purest alabaster made ; 




For I would have thine image be 


Catnent of X\)t Srisl) Q:migrant. 


White as I can, though not as thee. 




ANDREW M AKVELL. 


I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 




Where we sat side by side 




On a bright May mornin' long ago, 


0l)c toore a IXIreatl) of Uoscs. 


When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 


She wore a wreath of roses 


And the lark sang loud and high ; 


The night that fi.rst we met ; 


And the red was on your lip, Mary, 


Her lovely face was smiling 


And the love-light in your eye. 


Beneath her curls of jet. 




Her footstep had the lightness, 


The place is little changed, Mary ; 


Her voice the joyous tone, — 


The day is bright as then ; 


The tokens of a youthful heart, 


The lark's loud song is in my ear. 


Where sorrow is unknown. 


And the corn is green again ; 


I saw her but a moment, 


But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 


Yet methinks I see her now, 


And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 


With the wreath of summer flowers 


And I still keep list'nin' for the words 


Upon her snowy brow. 


You never more will speak. 


A wreath of orange-blossoms, 


'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 


When next we met, she wore ; 


And the little church stands near — 


The expression of her features 


The church where we were wed, Mary ; 


Was more thoughtful than before ; 


I see the spire from here. 



536 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 




And my step might break your rest, 


®l)e !3ribgc of Siglis. 


For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 




With your baby on your breast. 


" Drowned ! Drowned ! "— Hamlet. 


r • 11 It r 


One more unfortunate, 


1 m very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 


7 

Weary of breath. 


But, oh ! they love the better still 


Bashly importunate. 


The few our Father sends ! 


Gone to her death ! 


And you were all I had, Mary, 


Take her up tenderly. 


My blessin' and my pride : 


Lift her with care ! 


There 's nothing left to care for now, 


Fashioned so slenderly — 


Since my poor Mary died. 


Young, and so fair ! 


Yours was the good, brave heart, Maiy, 


Look at her garments 


That still kept hoping on, 


Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 


When the trust in God had left my soul, 


And my arm's young strength was gone ; 


Drips from her clothing ; 


There was comfort ever on your lip, 


Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing ! 


And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 


Though you cannot hear me now. 


Touch her not scornfully ! 


I thank you for the patient smile 


Think of her mournfully, 


■/ J. 

When your heart was fit to break, 


Gently and humanly — 


When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 


Kot of the stains of her ; 


And you hid it for my sake ; 


All that remains of her 


I bless you for the pleasant word. 


Now is pure womanly. 


When your heart was sad and sore — 




Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 


Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutinv. 


Where grief can't reach you more ! 


» ' 




Rash and undutiful ; 


\ I'm biddin' you a long farewell, 


Past all dishonor. 


My Mary, kind and true ! 


Death has left on her 


But I'll not forget you, darling, 


Only the beautiful. 


In the land I'm goin' to ; 




They say there 's bread and work for all, 


Still, for all slips of hers — 


And the sun shines always there, 


One of Eve's family — 


I But I'll not forget old Ireland, 


Wipe those poor lips of hers, 


\ Were it fifty times as fair ! 


Oozing so clammily. 


And often in those grand old woods 


Loop up her tresses 


I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 


Escaped from the comb — 


And my heart will travel back again 


Her fair auburn tresses — 


To the ])lace where Mary lies ; 


Whilst wonderment guesses 


And I'll think I see the little stile 


Where was her home ? 


Where we sat side by side. 




And the springin' com, and the bright May 


Who was her father? 


mom, 


Who was her mother ? 


When first you were my bride. 


Had she a sister ? 


Lady Dx:fferin. 


Had she a brother? 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 



537 



Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly. 
Fatherly, motherly 

Feelings had changed — 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

"Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river. 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement. 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch. 

Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery, 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it, think of it ! 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly — 

Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 

Young, and so fair ! 



Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly ! 
Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily. 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity. 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly. 
As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness. 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 



Thomas Hood. 



^\\t iHotlier's £ast Song. 

Sleep ! — The ghostly winds are blowing! 
No moon abroad, no star is glowing ; 
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 
To the land where you and I are going ! 
We are going afar. 
Beyond moon or star. 
To the land where the sinless angels are ! 

I lost my heart to your heartless sire, 
('Twas melted away by his looks of fire) 
Forgot my God, and my father's ire, 
All for the sake of a man's desire ; 

But now we'll go 

Where the waters flow. 
And make us a bed where none shall know. 

The world is cruel — the world is untrue ; 
Our foes are many, our friends are few ; 



538 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


No work, no bread, however we sue ! 


It seems so like my own 


What is there left for me to do, 


Because of the fasts I keep; 


But fly— fly 


God ! that bread should be so dear, 


From the cruel sky, 


And flesh and blood so cheap ! 


And hide in the deepest deeps — and die! 




Bakry Cornwall. 


" Work — work — work ! 




My labor never flags ; 




And what are its wages ? A bed of straw. 


®l)e Song of tl^e Gljirt. 


A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 


With fingers weary and worn, 


A table — a broken chair — 


With eyelids heavy and red, 


And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 


A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 


For sometimes falling there ! 


Plying her needle and thread — 




Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 


" Work — work — work ! 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 


From weary chime to chime ! 


And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 


Work — work — work — 


She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 


As prisoners work for crime ! 


'' 


Band, and gusset, and seam. 


" Work ! work ! work ! 


Seam, and gusset, and band — 


While the cock is crowing aloof ! 


Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 


And work — work — work, 


As w^ell as the weary hand. 


Till the stars shine through the roof ! 




It's oh ! to be a slave 


" Work — work — work 


Along with the barbarous Turk, 


In the dull December light ! 


Where woman has never a soul to save, 


And work — work — work. 


If this is Christian work ! 


When the weather is warm and bright ! 




While underneath the eaves 


" Work — work — work 


The brooding swallows cling. 


Till the brain begins to swim ! 


As if to show me their sunny backs. 


Work — work — work 


And twit me with the Spring. 


Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 


± o 


Seam, and gusset, and band, 


" Oh ! but to breathe the breath 


Band, and gusset, and seam — 


Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. 


Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 


With the skv above my head, 


And sew them on in a dream ! 


And the grass beneath my feet ! 


" men with sisters dear ! 


For only one short hour 


men with mothers and wives ! 


To feel as I used to feel, 


It is not linen you 're wearing out. 


Before I knew the woes of want 


But human creatures' lives ! 


And the walk that costs a meal ! 


Stitch — stitch — stitch, 




In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 


" Oh ! but for one short hour — 


Sewing at once, with a double thread, 


A respite liowever brief ! 


A shroud as well as a shirt ! 


No blessed leisure for love or hope. 




But only time for grief ! 


"But why do I talk of death — 


A little weeping would ease my heart ; 


That phantom of grisly bone? 


But in their briny bed 


I hardly fear his terrible shape. 


My tears must stop, for every drop 


It seems so like my own — 


Hinders needle and thread ! " 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 539 


With fingers weary and worn, 


Stranger, however great, 


With eyelids heavy and red, 


With lowly reverence bow ! 


A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 


There 's one in that poor shed — 


Plying her needle and thread — 


One by that paltry bed — 


Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 


Greater than thou. 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 




And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 


Beneath that beggar's roof. 


Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 


Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 


She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 


Enter ! — no crowds attend — 


Thomas Hood. 


Enter ! — no guards defend 




This palace gate. 




That pavement damp and cold 


Song of tl)e Silent £ani>. 


No smiling courtiers tread ; 




One silent woman stands, 


Into the silent land ! 


Lifting with meagre hands 


Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 


A dying head. 


Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 




And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand : 


No mingling voices sound — 


Who leads us with a gentle hand 


An infant wail alone ; 


Thither, oh, thither ! 


A sob suppressed — again 


Into the silent land ? 


That short deep gasp — and then 




The parting groan ! 


Into the silent land ! 




To you, ye boundless regions 


Oh ! change — oh ! wondrous change ! 


Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 


Burst are the prison bars ! 


Of beauteous souls ! The future's pledge and band ! 


This moment there, so low, 


W ho in life's battle firm doth stand 


So agonized — and now 


Shall bear hope's tender blossoms 


Beyond the stars ! 


Into the silent land ! 






Oh ! change — stupendous change ! 


land ! land ! 


There lies the soulless clod ! 


For all the broken-hearted 


The sun eternal breaks ; 


The mildest herald by our fate allotted 


The new immortal wakes — 


Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 


Wakes with his God. 


To lead us with a gentle hand 






Cakoltne Bowles Southet. 


Into the land of the great departed — 




Into the silent land ! 




JoHANN Gaudenz VON Salis. (German.) 




Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 


^\\z Cast Sourneu. 


- 


Slowly, with measured tread, 




Onward we bear the dead 


9tl)c pauper's Deatli-Beb. 


To his lone home ; 




Short goes the homeward road — 


Tread softly ! bow the head — 


On with your mortal load ! — 


In reverent silence bow ! 


grave ! we come. 


No passing-bell doth toll ; 




Yet an immortal soul 


Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 


Is passing now. 


Past each remembered spot 



540 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Where he hath been — 
Where late he walked in glee, 
These from henceforth to be 

Never more seen ! 

Rest ye — set down the bier ! 
One he loved dwelleth here ; 

Let the dead lie 
A moment that door beside, 
Wont to fly open wide 

Ere he drew nigh. 

Hearken! — he speaketh yet! — 
" friend ! wilt thou forget 

(Friend — more than brother!) 
How hand in hand .we've gone, 
Heart with heart linked in one — 

All to each other ? 

" O friend ! I go from thee — 
Where the worm feasteth free. 

Darkly to dwell ; 
Giv'st thon no parting kiss? 
Friend ! is it come to this ? 

O friend, farewell ! " 

Uplift your load again ! 

Take up the mourning strain — 

Pour the deep wail ! 
Lo ! the expected one 
To his place passeth on — 

Grave ! bid him hail ! 

Yet, yet — ah 1 slowly move — 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun beam on him 

Last looks of light. 

Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
Lay the departed low. 

Even at his gate ! 
Will the dead speak again — 
Utt'ring proud boasts, and vain 

Last words of hate ? 

liO ! the cold lips unclose — 
List ! list ! what sounds are those. 



Plaintive and low ? 
" thou, mine enemy ! 
Come forth and look on me, 



Ere hence I go. 



" Curse not thy f oemen now — 
Mark ! on his pallid brow 

^Tiose seal is set ! 
Pardoning I pass thy Avay ; 
Then wage not war with clay — 

Pardon — forget ! " 

Now all his labor 's done ! 
Now, now the goal is won ! 

grave, we come ! 
Seal up the precious dust — 
Land of the good and just. 

Take the soul home ! 

Caroline Bowles Southby. 



®lie paitpcr's Driue. 

There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round 

trot — 
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; 
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 

Rattle his hones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are 

none — 
He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can ! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and 

din! 
The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they 

spin ! 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is 

hurled ! — 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! 
He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
But it will not be long if he goes on so fast. 



PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? 



541 



You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother con- 
veyed — 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 

And be Joyful to think, when by death you 're laid 
low, 

You 've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it. is sad, 

To think that a heart in humanity clad 

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate 

end, 
And depart from the light without leaving a 
friend ! 
Bear soft his hoiies over the stones ! 
Though a pauper, he's one ivhom his Maker yet 
owns. Thomas Noel. 



9ri)e Deatli-Beb. 

We watched her breathing thro' the night. 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the mom came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



a Dcatl)-Bcd. 

Her suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 



But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern skies. 
She passed through glory's morning-gate. 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldkich. 



peace! toliat bo (J^ears ^rail? 

Peace ! what do tears avail ? 
She lies all dumb and pale. 

And from her eye 
The spirit of lovely life is fading — 

And she must die ! 
Why looks the lover wroth — the friend upbraid- 
ing? 

Keply, reply ! 

Hath she not dwelt too long 
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong f 

Then why not die? 
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, 

And hopeless lie ? 
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-mor- 
row? 

Eeply, reply i 

Death ! Take her to thine arms, 
In all her stainless charms ! 

And with her fly 
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, 

The angels lie ! 
Wilt bear her there, Death ! in all her white- 
ness? 

Reply, reply ! 

Barry Corjtwall, 



fester. 

Whex maidens such as Hester die. 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavor. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her, together. 



543 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 



A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate. 
That flushed her spirit ; 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in Nature's school — 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore 1 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day — 
A bliss that would not go away — 
A sweet forewarning ? 

Chakles Lajib. 



£j}cibas. 

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
1 come to pluck your berries harsh and crude 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 
Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well. 



That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 

So may some gentle muse 

With lucky words favor my destined urn, 

And as he passes turn, 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ; 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. 

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 

Lender the opening eyelids of the morn, 

We drove a-field, and both together heard 

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of 

night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Tempered to the oaten flute ; 
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad song would not be absent long. 
And old Damostas loved to hear our song. 

But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone — 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- 

grown, 
And all their echoes, mourn; 
Tlie willows, and the hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen. 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless 

deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep. 
Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream — 
Ay me 1 I fondly dream. 
Had ye been there ; for what could that have 

done? 
What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore. 
The muse herself for her enchanting son. 



LYCIDAS. 



543 



Whom universal nature did lament, 
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, 
And strictly meditate the thankless muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 

raise 
(That last infirmity of noble minds) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, 
And slits the thin -spun life. But not the 

praise, 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 

fountain Arethuse, and thou honored fi.ood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 

swain ? 
And questioned every gust of rugged winds 
That blows from off each beaked promontory ; 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, 



Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. 

Ah ! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? 

Last came, and last did go, 

The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 

How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain. 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 
Of other care they little reckoning make, 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
Blind mouths 1 that scarce themselves know how 

to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs I 
What recks it them? what need they? they are 

sped ; 
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 
But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they 

draw. 
Hot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 
But that two-handed engine at the door, 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past. 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet. 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears. 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 



544 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 



To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies, 
For so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled. 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth ! 
And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no 

more ! 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the 

waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore. 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and 

rills. 
While the still morn went out with sandals 

gray; 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

John Milton. 



Jn Hcmcmbrttucc of m)z J§on. QfbxDatO 
Q^rncst bilUcrs. 

I. 

A GRACE though melancholy, manly too, 
Moulded his being ; pensive, grave, serene, 
O'er his habitual bearing and his mien 
Unceasing pain, by patience tempered, threw 
A shade of sweet austerity. But seen 
In happier hours and by the friendly few, 
That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, 
And fancy light and playful as a fawn, 
And reason imped with inquisition keen, 
Knowledge long sought with ardor ever new, 
And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true 
What genial joys with sufferings can consist. 
Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist 
Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn. 
Aerial heights disclosing, valleys green. 
And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between. 
And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. 

II. 

And even the stranger, though he saw not these, 
Saw what would not be willingly passed by. 
In his deportment, even when cold and shy, 
Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, 
A simple grace and gentle dignity. 
That failed not at the first accost to please ; 
And as reserve relented by degrees. 
So winning was his aspect and address. 
His smile so rich in sad felicities. 
Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, 
That who but saw him once remembered long. 
And some in whom such images are strong 
Have hoarded the impression in their heart. 
Fancy's fond dreams and memory's joys among, 
Like some loved relic of romantic song. 
Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art. 

ni. 

His life was private; safely led, aloof 

From the loud world, — which yet he understood 

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. 

For he by privilege of his nature proof 

Against false glitter, from beneath the roof 

Of privacy, as from a caA'e. surveyed 

With steadfast eye its flickering light and shade, 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 



And gently judged for evil and for good. 

But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof 

In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, 

Not shorn of action, for the public weal — 

For truth and justice as its warp and woof, 

For freedom as its signature and seal. 

His life thus sacred from the world, discharged 

From vain ambition and inordinate care, 

In virtue exercised, by reverence rare 

Lifted, and by humility enlarged. 

Became a temple and a place of prayer. 

In latter years he walked not singly there ; 

For one was with him, ready at all hours 

His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share. 

Who buoyantly his burthens helped to bear. 

And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. 

IV. 

But farther may we pass not ; for the ground 

Is holier than the muse herself may tread ; 

Nor would I it should echo to a sound 

Less solemn than the service for the dead. 

Mine is inferior matter — my own loss — 

The loss of dear delights for ever fled, 

Of reason's converse by affection fed, 

Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across 

Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 

Friend of my youth ! though younger, yet my 

guide, 
How much by thy unerring insight clear 
I shaped my way of life for many a year. 
What thoughtful friendship on thy death-bed died ! 
Friend of my youth ! whilst thou wast by my side, 
Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath ; 
How like a charm thy life to me supplied 
All waste and injury of time and tide. 
How like a disenchantment was thy death ! 

Eenkt Taylor. 



©legs on CHaptain iHattlietD J^enbetson. 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The muckle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stockfish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

37 



He 's gane ! he 's gane ! he 's f rae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns. 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' todlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at his head. 

At even, when beans their fragrance shed 

I' th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade, 

Come, join my wail ! 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather-bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He 's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake ! 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay ! 



546 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


And when ye wing your annual way 


But by thy honest turf I '11 wait, 


Frae our cauld shore, 


Thou man of worth ! 


Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay, 


And weep the ae best fellow's fate 


Wham we deplore. 


E'er lay in earth. 




Robert Burns. 


Ye howlets, frae your ivy bower. 




In some auld tree, or eldritch tower. 




What time the moon, wi' silent glower, 




Sets up her horn. 


^ i^uncral %mn. 


Wail through the weary midnight hour 




Till waukrif e morn ! 


Ye midnight shades, o'er nature spread ! 




Dumb silence of the dreary hour ! 


rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 


In honor of th' approaching dead. 


Oft have ye heard my eantie strains ; 


Around your awful terrors pour. 


But now, what else for me remains 


Yes, pour around. 


But tales of woe ; 


On this pale ground. 


And frae my een the drapping rains 


Through all this deep surrounding gloom. 


Maun ever flow ! 


The sober thought. 




The tear untaught. 


Mourn, spring, thou darhng of the year ! 


Those meetest mourners at a tomb. 


Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear ; 




Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 


Lo ! as the surpliced train draw near 


Shoots up his head. 


To this last mansion of mankind, 


Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 


The slow sad bell, the sable bier. 


For him that 's dead ! 


In holy musings wrap the mind ! 




And while their beam. 


Then autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 


With trembling stream, 


In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 


Attending tapers faintly dart. 


Thou, winter, hurling through the air 


Each mouldering bone, 


The roaring blast, 


Each sculptured stone, 


Wide o'er the naked world declare 


Strikes mute instruction to the heart ! 


The worth we've lost ! 






Xow, let the sacred organ blow, 


Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 


With solemn pause, and sounding slow ; 


Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 


Now, let the voice due measure keep, 


And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 


In strains that sigh, and words that weep. 


My Matthew mourn ! 


Till all the vocal cun-ent blended roll, 


For through your orbs he 's taen his flight, 


Not to depress, but lift the soaring soul — 


Ne'er to return. 






To lift it to the Maker's praise, 


Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 


Who first informed our frame with breath, 


And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 


And, after some few stormy days, 


And hast thou crossed that unknown river, 


Now, gracious, gives us o'er to death. 


Life's dreary bound ? 


No king of fears 


Like thee, where shall I find another, 


In him appears. 


The world around ? 


Who shuts the scene of human woes; 




Beneath his shade 


Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 


Securely laid, 


In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 


The dead alone find true repose. 



THE EXEQUY. 547 


Then, while we mingle dust with dust, 


But thou wilt nevermore appear 


To One, supremely good and wise, 


Folded within my hemisphere. 


Raise hallelujahs ! God is just. 


Since both thy light and motion 


And man most happy when he dies ! 


Like a fled star is fallen and gone, 


His winter past, 


And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish 


Fair spring at last 


The earth now interposed is, 


Receives him on her flowery shore. 


Which such a strange eclipse doth make 


Where pleasure's rose 


As ne'er was read in almanac. 


Immortal blows, 




And sin and sorrow are no more ! 


I could allow thee for a time 


David Mallett. 


To darken me, and my sad clime : 




Were it a month, or year, or ten, 




I would thy exile live till then. 




And all that space my mirth adjourn, 


^\\t QE^eequs- 


So thou wouldst promise to return. 




And, putting off thy ashy shroud, 


Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 


At length disperse this sable cloud. 


Instead of dirges, this complaint ; 




And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse 


But woe is me ! the longest date 


Receive a strew of weeping verse 


Too narrow is to calculate 


From thy grieved friend, whom thou' might'st 


These empty hopes : never shall I 


see 


Be so much blest as to descry 


Quite melted into tears for thee. 


A glimpse of thee, till that day come \ 




Which shall the earth to cinders doom, • : 


Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate. 


And a fierce fever must calcine 


My task hath been to meditate 


The body of this world like thine, 


On thee, on thee ; thou art the book. 


(My little world ! ) : that fit of fire 


The library whereon I look, 


Once off, our bodies shall aspire 


Though almost blind ; for thee (loved clay) 


To our souls' bliss : then we shall rise, 


I languish out, not live, the day. 


And view ourselves with clearer eyes 


Using no other exercise 


In that calm region where no night 


But what I practice with mine eyes ; 


Can hide us from each other's sight. 


By which wet glasses I find out 




How lazily Time creeps about 


Meantime thou hast her, Earth : much good 


To one that mourns : this, only this, 


May my harm do thee ! Since it stood 


My exercise and business is : 


With Heaven's will 1 might not call 


So I compute the weary hours 


Her longer mine, I give thee all 


With sighs dissolved into showers. 


My short-lived right and interest 




In her whom living I loved best. 


Nor wonder if my time go thus 


With a most free and bounteous grief 


Backward and most preposterous ; 


I give thee what I could not keep. 


Thou hast benighted me ; thy set 


Be kind to her, and, prithee, look 


This eve of blackness did beget. 


Thou write into thy doomsday book 


Who wast my day (though overcast 


Each parcel of this rarity 


Before thou hadst thy noontide passed), 


Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. 


And I remember must in tears 


See that thou make thy reckoning straight, 


Thou scarce hadst seen so many years 


And yield her back again by weight : 


As day tells hours : by thy clear sun 


For thou must audit on thy trust 


My love and fortune first did run : 


Each grain and atom of this dust. 



548 



P0E2IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



As thou wilt answer Him that lent, 
Xot gave thee, my dear monument. 
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade 
Bla(5k curtains draw : my bride is laid. 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 
Never to be disquieted ! 
My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wake 
Till I thy fate shall overtake : 
Till age or grief, or sickness must 
Marry my body to that dust 
It so much loves, and fill the room 
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
Stay for me there : I will not fail 
To meet thee in that hollow A'ale. 
And think not much of my delay ; 
I am already on the way. 
And follow thee with all the speed 
Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 
Each minute is a short degi-ee, 
And eveiT hour a step towards thee. 
At night when I betake to rest. 
Next morn I rise nearer my west 
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail. 
Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale*. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers, 
And my day's compass downward bears : 
Nor labor I to stem the tide 
Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield ; 
Thou, like the van, fii'^t took'st the field, 
And gotten hast the victory. 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my p.ulse, like a soft drum, 
Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; 
And, slow howe'er my marches- be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 
And wait my dissolution 
W ith liope and comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime), I am content to live. 
Divided, with but half a heart. 
Till we shall meet and never part. 

Henrt King. 



^ant txjcre but tl)e tointcr (flaulb. 

Gane Avere but the winter cauld, 
And gane were but the snaw, 

I could sleep in the wild woods, 
Where primroses blaw. 

Cauld 's the snaw at my head, 

And cauld at my feet. 
And the finger o' death 's at my een, 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let nane tell mv father. 

Or my mither sae dear ; 
I'll meet them baith in heaven 

At the spring o' the year. 

Allan Cunningham. 



(J)!) ! Snatclicb droan in Bcautti's jBlaom. 

Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread — 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead. 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less i 

And thou, who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Bykon. 



Coronacl). 

He is gone on the mountain, 
He is lost to the forest. 

Like a summer-dried fountain, 
When our need was the sorest. 



OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 



549 



The font re-appearing 

From the rain-droi3S shall borrow ; 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

"Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing, 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone, and for ever. 

SiK Walter Scott. 



©I) ! Breatlie not l)is ^ame. 

Oh ! breathe not his name ! let it sleep in the shade. 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 

sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls. 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 

Thomas Mooke. 



^ Dirge. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast — 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Eain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale. 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Through the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine. 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Bare broid'ry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused — 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



550 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



®l)c Dirjge of Smogcn. 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all must 

As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great — 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Quiet consummation have ; 

And renowned be thy grave ! 

William Shakespeare. 



Dirge of Jc;]l)tliali's Dauglitcr. 

SUNG BY THE VIRGINS. 

THOU, the wonder of all dayes ! 
paragon, and pearl of praise ! 
virgin-martyr, cA'er blest 

Above the rest 
Of all the maiden traine I We come. 
And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe. 

Thus, thus, and thus we compasse round 
Thy harmlesse and imhaunted ground ; 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill. 
And other flowers, lay upon 
The altar of oui- love, tliy stone. 



Thou, wonder of all maids, rest here — 
Of daughters all, the deerest deere ; 
The eye of virgins ; nay, the queen 

Of this smooth green. 
And all sweet meades from whence we get 
The primrose and the violet. 

Too soone, too deere, did Jephthah buy, 

By thy sad losse. our liberty ; 

His was the bond and cov'nant, yet 

Thou paid'st the debt ; 
Lamented maid ! he won the day, 
But for the conquest thou didst pay. 

Thy father brought with him along 
The olive-branch, and victor's song ; 
He slew the Ammonites, we know — 

But to thy woe ; 
And in the purchase of our peace 
The cure was worse than the disease. 

For which obedient zeale of thine 
We offer here, before thy shrine. 
Our sighs for storax, teares for wine ; 

And, to make fine 
And fresh thy herse-cloth. we will here 
Four times bestrew thee every yeere. 

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears ; 
Receive this offering of our haires ; 
Receive these christall vials, filled 

With tears distilled 
From teeming eyes ; to these we bring, 
Each maid, her silver filleting. 

To guild thy tombe ; besides, these caules, 
These laces, ribbands, and these faules — 
These veiles, wherewith we use to hide 

The bashful! bride. 
When we conduct her to her groome ; 
All, all we lay upon thy tombe. 

No more, no more, since thou art dead, 
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed ; 
No more, at yeerly festi vails. 

We cowslip balls. 
Or ehaines of columbines, shall make 
For this or that occasion's sake. 



DIRGE. 



551 



No. no ! our maiden pleasures be 
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee ; 
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave ; 

Or if we have 
One seed of life left, 'tis to keep 
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all paradise ; 

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense ; 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May no wolfe howle, or screech-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ; 

Ko boysterous winds or storms come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ; but, like a spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

May all shie maids, at wonted hours, 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ; 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ; then return, 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 

K03EBT HeKKICK. 



Oh dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where I and my true-love may sleep ! 
We'll dig a grave, and dig it deep. 
Where thou and thy true-love shall sleep I 

And let it be five fathom low, 
Where winter winds may never blow ! 
And it shall he five fathoms low, 
WJiere winter winds shall never blow ! 

And let it be on yonder hill, 
Where grows the mountain daffodil ! 
And it shall he on yonder hill, 
Where groivs tlie mountain daffodil ! 

And plant it round with holy briers. 

To fright away the fairy fires ! 

We'll plant it round ivith holy hriers, 
To fright away the fairy fires ! 



And set it round with celandine. 
And nodding heads of columbine ! 
WeHl set it round with celandine, 
And nodding heads of columbine ! 

And let the ruddock build his nest 
Just above my true-love's breast ! 
The ruddock he shall build his nest 
Just above thy true-lovers breast ! 

And warble his sweet wintry song 

O'er our dwelling all day long ! 
And he shall warble his sweet song 
O'er your dwelling all day long. 

Now, tender friends, my garments take. 
And lay me out for Jesus' sake ! 
And we will now thy garments take. 
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake ! 

And lay me by my true-love's side, 

That I may be a faithful bride ! 

We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side. 
That thou may'st be a faithful bride I 

When I am dead, and buried be, 
Pray to God in heaven for me ! 
Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee. 
And pray to God in heaven for thee I 

Benedicite ! 
William Stanlet Roscoe. 



iDirjge in (flsmbcUne, 

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, 
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here. 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen — 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 



552 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 

Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 

To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more, 

And mourned till pity's self be dead. 

WiLUAM Collins. 



Bribal Song anb Dirge. 

A CYPRESS-BOUGH and a rose-wreath sweet, 
A wedding-robe and a winding-sheet, 
A bridal-bed and a bier ! 
Thine be the kisses, maid, 

And smiling love's alarms ; 
And thou, pale youth, be laid 
In the grave's cold arms : 
Each in his own charms — 

Death and Hymen both are here. 
So up with scythe and torch. 
And to the old church porch, 
While all the bells ring clear ; 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, 
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 

Now tremble dimples on your cheek — 
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak, 
For he who kisses is near : 
By her the bridegod fair, 

In youthful power and force ; 
By him the grizard bare, 
Pale knight on a pale horse. 
To woo him to a corse — 

Death and Hymen both are here. 
So up with scytlio and torch, 
And to the old church porch, 
While all the bells ring clear ; 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, 
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



Dirge. 

If thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 
Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
And not a sorrow 

Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; 

Lie still and deep. 
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
In eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart 
Of love, and aU its smart — 

Then die, dear, die ! 
'Tis deeper, sweeter, 

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 

With folded eye ; 
And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her 
In eastern sky. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



Dirge. 

Softly I 
She is lying 
With her lips apart. 

Softly ! 
She is dying of a broken heart. 

\\liisper ! 
She is going 
To her final rest. 
Whisper ! 
Life is growing 
Dim within her breast. 

Gently! 
She is sleeping, 

She has breathed her last. 
Gently ! 
While you are weeping, 
She to heaven has past ! 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



A BRIDAL DIRGE. 



553 



Dirge for a Boung (6irl. 

Underneath the sod low-lying, 

Dark and drear, 
Sleepeth one who left, in dying, 

Sorrow here. 

Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her 

Eyes that weep ; 
Forms, that to the cold grave bore her. 

Vigils keep. 

When the summer moon is shining 

Soft and fair, 
Friends she loved in tears are twining 

Chaplets there. 

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 

Throned above ; 
Souls like thine with God inherit 

Life and love ! 

James Thomas Fields. 



Dirge. 

Where shall we make her grave f 
Oh, where the wild-flowers wave 

In the free air ! 
When shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard ■ 

There — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Xow may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill ; 
Low on sweet nature's breast 
Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters, by I 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
WTiere, on a gentle head. 

Storms beat no more ! 

"VMiat though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 



Plays the soft wind ? 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

Oh, then, where wild-flowers ware, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



^ Bribal Dirge. 

Weave no more the marriage chain ! 

All unmated is the lover ; 
Death has ta'en the place of pain ; 
Love doth call on love in vain ; 

Life and years of hope are over ! 

No more want of marriage bell ! 

No more need of bridal favor ! 
Where is she to wear them well ? 
You beside the lover, tell ! 

Gone — with all the love he gave her! 

Paler than the stone she lies — 
Colder than the winter's morning ; 

Wherefore did she thus despise 

(She with pity in her eyes) 

Mother's care, and lover's warning ! 

Youth and beauty — shall they not 
Last beyond a brief to-morrow? 

No — a prayer and then forgot ! 

This the truest lover's lot. 

This the sum of human sorrow ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



_ . — __ 

554 P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 




She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 


^\)t pi)antom. 


Beyond the open door, 




And, gliding through the quiet sunshine. 


Agaix I sit within the mansion, 


A shadow on the floor ! 


In the old, familiar seat ; 




And shade and sunshine chase each other 


Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 


O'er the carpet at my feet. 


The vine whose shadow strays : 




And my patient heart must still await her, 


But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled up- 


Nor chide her long delays. 


wards 
In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches lower 
Than when I saw them last. 


But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, 

As many a time before : 

Her foot is ever at the threshold. 

Yet never passes o'er. 

Batard Taylor. 


They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 




From out the haunted room — 




To fill the house, that once was joj^ul. 
With silence and with gloom. 


€|jitapli o\\ CeU^abctl) £. §. 


' 


WouLDST thou heare what man can say 


And many kind, remembered faces 


In a little f — reader, stay ! 


Within the doorway come — 


Underneath this stone doth lye 


Voices that wake the sweeter music 


As much beauty as could dye ; 


Of one that now is dumb. 


Which in life did harbor give 




To more vertue than doth live. 


They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 


If at all she had a fault. 


The songs she loved to hear ; 


Leave it buried in this vault. 


They braid the rose in summer garlands, 


One name was Elizabeth — 


Whose flowers to her were dear. 


Th' other, let it sleep with death : 




Fitter, where it dyed to tell. 


And still her footsteps in the passage. 


Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 


Her blushes at the door, 


Ben Jonson. 


Her timid words of maiden welcome, 




Come back to me once more. 




And all forgetful of my sorrow. 


Icliabob. 


Unmindful of my pain. 


So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 


I think she has but newly left me. 


Which once he wore ! 


And soon will come again. 


The glory from his gray hairs gone 




For evermore ! 


She stays without, perchance, a moment, 
To dress her dark-brown hair ; 


Revile him not — the tempter hath 

A snare for all ! 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 


1 hear the rustle of her garments, 
Her light step on the stair ! 


fluttering heart ! control thy tumult, 


Oh ! dumb is passion's stormy rage, 


Lest eyes profane should see 


When he who might 


My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 


Have lighted up and led his age. 


Her coming brings to me ! 
I 


Falls back in night. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



555 



Scorn ! Would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

From hope and heayen ? 

Let not the land, once proud of him. 

Insult him now ; 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead. 

In sadness make. 

Of aU we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angeFs pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame ! 

John Gkeeitleai' Whittiek. 



^\)t £ost £cabcr. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us ; 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. 

So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Hags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 
him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
cents. 
Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 



Shakespeare w^as of us, Milton was for us, 
Burns, Shelley, were with us — they watch from 
their graves ! 

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 

We shall march prospering — not through his pres- 
ence; 
Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quies- 
cence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade as- 
pire. 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 
One task more declined, one more footpath un- 
trod, 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
God! 

Life's night begins; let him never come back to 
us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twi- 
light, 
Never glad, confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
lantly. 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his 
own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait 
us. 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 

Egbert Browning. 



JJroub ittaisie is in tl)c tOoob. 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird. 
When shall I marry me ? " 

— " When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carrv ye." 



556 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SOEEOW. 


" Who makes the bridal bed, 


And now the chilling, freezing air 


Birdie, say truly?" 


Without blew long and loud ; 


— " The gray-headed sexton 


Upon our knees we breathed one prayer. 


That delves the grave duly. 


Where he slept in his shroud. 


" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 


We laid the broken marble floor, — 


Shall light thee steady ; 


No name, no trace appears ! 


The owl from the steeple sing 


And when we closed the sounding door, 


Welcome, proud lady ! " 


We thought of him with tears. 


Sir Walter Scott. 


William Lisle Botvtles. 


(Bn tlic i^uneral of (Cl)arlcs t^e £\X5U 


QL\)c Burial of Sir 3olin iltoore. 


AT NIGHT IX ST. GEORGE's CHAPEL, WINDSOR. 


XoT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 


The castle clock had tolled midnight. 


Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 


With mattock and with spade — 


O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 


And silent, by the torches' light — - 
His corse in earth we laid. 


We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning. 


The coffin bore his name ; that those 


By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 


Of other years might know, 


And the lantern dimly burning. 


When earth its secrets should disclose, 
Whose bones were laid below. 


No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 


" Peace to the dead I " no children sung, 


But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 


Slow pacing up the nave ; 


With his martial cloak around him ! 


No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 
As deep we dug his grave. 


Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 


We only heard the winter's wind, 


But Ave steadfastly gazed on the face that was 


In many a sullen gust. 


dead. 


As o'er the open grave inclined, 


And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 


We murmured, •' Dust to dust ! " 






We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 


A moonbeam from the arch's height 


And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 


Streamed, as we placed the stone ; 


That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 


The long aisles started into light, 


his head. 


And all the windows shone. 


And we far away on the billow ! 


We thought we saw the banners then 


Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, 


That shook along the walls. 


And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 


Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 


But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 


Were gazing on the stalls. 


In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 


'Tis gone ! — Again on tombs defaced 


But half of our heavy task was done, 


Sits darkness more profound ; 


When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 


And only by the torch we traced 


And we heard the distant and random gun, 


The shadows on the ground. 


That the foe was sullenly firing. 



ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 



557 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory, 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone - 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



0n t[)e IDeatl) of (George tl)e ^\\\xh. 

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE. 

I SAW him last on this terrace proud, 

Walking in health and gladness. 
Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 

Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — 

Blithely the birds were singing : 
The cymbals replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

1 have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 

When not a word was spoken — 
When every eye was dim with a tear. 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour, 
To the muffled drums' deep rolling, 

While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar. 
Drowned the death-bells' tolling. 

The time — since he walked in his glory thus, 
To the grave iill I saw him carried — 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son. 
And a son's sole child, have perished ; 

And sad was each heart, save only the one 
By which they were fondest cherished : 

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark, 

And he sat in his age's lateness — 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness ; 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 

Unvexed by life's commotion. 
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 



Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, 

Though the stream of life kept flowing ; 

When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say 
The old man's strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 

To the people's pity and wonder. 

He is gone at length, he is laid in the dust. 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking : 

For the coffined sleep of the good and just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 

And should sculptured stone be denied him, 
There will his name be found, when in turn 

We lay our heads beside him. 

Horace Smith. 



^\)t tDarben of tl)e Qlinque J3orts. 

A MIST was driving down the British Channel ; 

The day was just begun ; 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel. 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon. 

And the white sails of ships ; 
And from the frowning rampart the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and 
Dover 

Were all alert that day. 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 

Their cannon, through the night, 
Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance 

The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared, at drum-beat, from their 
stations 

On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations. 

That all was well ! 



558 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the warden 

And lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

Xo drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure, 

Awaken with their call ! 

No more, surveying with an eve impartial 

The long line of the coast. 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal 

Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 

In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 

The rampart wall has scaled ! 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper — 

The dark and silent room ; 
And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley, or dissemble, 

But smote the warden hoar — 
Ah ! what a blow I — that made all England tremble 

And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, ( 

The sun rose bright o'erhead — 
Nothing in nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



Dirge for a Solbier. 

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL PHILIP KEARNY, KILLED 
SEPTEMBER 1, 1862. 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun. 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know : 
Lay him low I 



As man may, he fought his fight. 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep in solemn night. 
Sleep for ever and for ever ; 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars. 
What but death-bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he f he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 



^0 tlic iUctttorg erf ®l)omas ^oob. 

Take back into thy bosom. Earth. 

This joyous, ^lay-eyed morrow. 
The gentlest child that ever Mirth 

Gave to be reared by Sorrow ! 
'Tis hard — while rays half green, half gold. 

Through vernal bowers are burning. 
And streams their diamond-mirrors hold 

To summer's face returning — 
To say we're thankful that his sleep 

Shall never more be lighter. 
In whose sweet-tongued companionship 

Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! 

But all the more intensely true 
His soul gave out each feature 

Of elemental love — each hue 
And grace of golden nature — 



TO THE MEMORY OF TH03IAS HOOD. 



559 



The deeper still Ijeneath it all 


V\ ith sadness to subdue the soul, 


Lurked the keen jags of angnish ; 


Or thrill it with the tragic. 


The more the laurels clasped his brow 


Xow listening Aram's fearful dream, 


Their poison made itlan?ui%. 


VV e see beneath the w-illow 


Seemed it that Like the nightingale 


That dreadful thing, or watch him steal, 


Of his own mournful singing, 


Guilt-lighted, to his pillow. 


The tenderer would his song prevail 


Xow with thee roaming ancient groves, 


While most the thorn was stin^ng. 


We watch the woodman felling 


So never to the desert-worn 

Did fount bring freshness deeper. 


The funeral elm. while through its boughs 

The ghostlv wind comes knelling. 


Than that his placid rest this mom 
Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 


Dear worshipper of Dian's face 
In solitary places. 


That rest may lap his weary head 


Shalt thou no more steal, as of yore, 


Where chamels choke the city, 


To meet her white embraces f 


Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed 


Is there no purple in the rose 


The wren shall wake its ditty : 


Henceforw ard to thy senses ? 


But near or far, while evening's star 


For thee have dawn and daylight's close 


Is dear to hearts regretting, 


Lost their sweet influences ? 


Around that spot admiring thought 


No ! — bv the mental night nntamed 


Shall hover, unforgetting. 


Thou took'st to death's dark portal, 


And if this sentient, seething world 
Is. after all. ideal. 


The joy of the wide universe 
Is now to thee immortal I 


Or in the immaterial furled 


How fierce contrasts the city's roar 


Alone resides the real, 
Freed one I there 's a wail for thee this hotir 


With thy new -conquered quiet I — 
This stunning hell of wheels that pour 


Through thy loveil elves' dominions ; 


With princes to their riot ! 


Hushed is each tiny trumpet-flower. 


Loud clash the crowds -r- the busy clouds 


And droopeth Ariel's pinions : 


With thunder-noise are shaken. 


Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing, 


While pale, and mute, and cold, afar 


To plan, with fond endeavor. 


Thou liest, men-forsaken. 


What pretty buds and dews shall keep 


Hot Hfe reeks on, nor recks that one 


Thy pillow bright for ever. 


— The plavfuL human-hearted — 


And higher, if less happy, tribes — 

The race of early childhood — 
Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit, 


Who lent its clay less earthiness, 
Is just from earth departed. 

Babtholoxew SuCltOKS. 


That in the summer wild-wood. 




Or bv the Christmas hearth, were hailed, 
And hoarded as a treasure 


©n i\]c Death of ir05cpfi Uobman 


Of undecaying merriment 


Drake. 


And ever-chaneinsr pleasure. 
Things from thy lavish humor flung 
Profuse as scents, are flying 


" The good die first. 
And thev whose hearts are drr as gmnmer dust 
Bom to the socket." — Wordsworth. 


This kindling mom when blooms are bom 
As fast as blooms are dying. 


Greex be the turf above thee. 
Friend of my better days I 


Sublimer art owned thy control — 


Xone knew thee but to love thee. 


The minstrel s mightiest magic, 


Xor named thee but to praise. 



560 POEMS OF TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 

1 


Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 


And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms 


From eyes unused to weep ; 


twining. 


And long where thou art lying 


Burst through that clay — 


Will tears the cold turf steep. 


Will there be one still on that spot repining 




Lost hopes all day ? 


"When hearts whose truth was proven, 




Like thine, are laid in earth, 


When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping 


There should a wreath be woven. 


Of her dark pall, 


To tell the world their worth ; 


The world and all its manifold creation sleeping — 




The great and small — 


And I, who woke each morrow 


Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping 


To clasp thy hand in mine, 


For me — for all ? 


Wlio shared thy joy and sorrow, 




Whose weal and woe were thine, — 


When no star twinkles with its eye of glory 




On that low mound. 


It should be mine to braid it 


And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 


Around thy faded brow ; 


Its loneness crowned. 


But I've in vain essayed it. 


Will there be then one versed in misery's story 


And feel I cannot now. 


Pacing it round ? 


While memory bids rae weep thee, 


It maybe so — but this is selfish sorrow 


Xor thoughts nor words are free ; 


To ask such meed — 


The grief is fixed too deeply 


A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow 


That mourns a man like thee. 


From hearts that bleed 


Fitz-Grebne Halleck. 


The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 




Shall never need. 


tX)l)cn 3 bencatli tlic (Tolb, Ucb Qrartl) 


Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling. 
Thou gentle heart ! 


am Sleeping. 


And, though thy bosom should with grief be 
swelling. 

Let no tear start ; 


When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleeping, 


Life's fever o'er, 
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 


It were in vain — for time hath long been knell- 
ing— 


That I'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 
Of heretofore ? 


Sad one, depart ! 

William Motherwell. 

It 


When the great winds through leafless forests 




rushing. 

Like full hearts break — 


^ Poet's OEpitapl). 


When the swoll'n streams, o'er crag and gully 


Stop, mortal ! Here thy brother lies — 


gushing. 


The poet of the poor. 


Sad music make — 


His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 


Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing, 


The meadow and the moor ; 


Mourn for my sake % 


His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 




The tyrant and the slave, 


When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 


The street, the factory, the jail, 


With purest ray, 


The palace — and the grave ! 



OVER THE RAJSGE. 



561 



Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 

And is thy brother blamed 1 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claimed. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little, more ; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 

From plundered labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 

Ebenezer Elliott. 



Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit, 

I start and wake, it is so strange 
To find myself alone, and Tom 

Across the Range. 

We brought him in with heavy feet 
And eased him down ; from eye to eye, 

Though no one spoke, there passed a fear 
That Tom must die. 

He rallied when the sun was low, 

And spoke ; I thought the words were strange : 
" It 's almost night, and I must go 

Across the Range." 

« What, Tom 1 " He smiled and nodded : " Yes, 
They 've struck it rich there, Jim, you know. 

The parson told us ; you'll come soon : 
Now Tom must go." 

I brought his sweetheart's pictured face : 
Again that smile, so sad and strange. 

" Tell her," said he, " that Tom has gone 
Across the Range." 

The last night lingered on the hill. 

" There's a pass, somewhere," then he said, 
And lip, and eye, and hand were still ; 

And Tom was dead. 



JS 



Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit : 
I start and wake, it is so strange 

To find myself alone, and Tom 
Across the Range. 



J. Harbison Mills. 



It is not that my lot is low 
That makes this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan ; 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam. 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs 
With hollowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn .leaf is sere and dead — 
It floats upon the water's bed ; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sullen wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision 's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 

Henet Kirke White. 



^ Cantcnt. 

Swifter far than summer's flight, 
Swifter far than youth's delight, 
Swifter far than happy night. 

Art thou come and gone ; 
As the earth when leaves are dead. 
As the night wiien sleep is sped. 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left alone, alone. 



562 . P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 


The swallow, summer, comes again ; 




The owlet, night, resumes her reign ; 


Dreatn-lanir. 


But the wild swan, youth, is fain 




To fly with thee, false as thou. 


Where sunless rivers weep 


My heart each day desires the morrow ; 


Their waves into the deep, 


Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ; 


She sleeps a charmed sleep : 


Vainly would my winter borrow 


Awake her not. 


Sunny leaves from any bough. 


Led by a single star, 




She came from very far, 


Lilies for a bridal bed. 


To seek where shadows are 


Koses for a matron's head. 


Her pleasant lot. 


Violets for a maiden dead — 




Pansies let my flowers be ; 


She left the rosy mom. 


On the living grave I bear, 


She left the fields of com, 


Scatter them without a tear, 


For twilight cold and lorn 


Let no friend, however dear. 


And water-springs. 


Waste one hope, one fear for me. 


Through sleep, as through a veil, 


Percy Bysskb Shelley. 


She sees the sky look pale, 




And hears the nightingale 


' 


That sadly sings. 


3:i)e boicelcss. 


Rest, rest, a perfect rest 


We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 


Shed over brow and breast ; 
Her face is toward the west. 
The purple land. 


The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? 


She cannot see the grain 


1 

A few can touch the magic string, 


Ripening on hill and plain ; 


And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 


She cannot feel the rain 


Alas for those that never sing, 


Upon her hand. 


But die with all their music in them ! 






Rest, rest, for evermore 


Nay, grieve not for the dead alone. 


Upon a mossy shore ; 


Whose song has told their hearts' sad story : 


Rest, rest at the heart's core 


Weep for the voiceless, who have known 


Till time shall cease : 


The cross without the crown of glory ! 


Sleep that no pain shall wake, 


Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 


Night that no morn shall break, 


O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 


Till joy shall overtake 


But where the glistening night-dews weep 


Her perfect peace. 


On nameless sorrow's church-yard pillow. 


Christina Gabriella Rossetti. 


hearts that break, and give no sign, 




Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 


• 


Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 


^ Catttcnt. 


Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses ! 




If singing breath or echoing chord 


WORLD ! life ! time ! 


To every^ hidden pang were given, 


On whose last steps 1 climb, 


What endless melodies were poured, 


Trembling at that where I had stood before. 


As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 


When will return the glory of your prime f 


Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


No more — oh, nevermore! 



MOTHER AND POET. 



563 



Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 

No more — oh, nevermore ! 

Percy Btsshe Shelley. 



^\)t Castle bg tlie Sea. 

" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That castle by the sea ? 
Golden and red, above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

" And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

" Well have I seen that castle. 

That castle by the sea, 
And the moon above it standing, • 

And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime f 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers. 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme f " 

" The winds and the waves of ocean. 

They rested quietly ; 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail. 

And tears came to mine eye." 

" And sawest thou on the turrets 

The king and his roval bride? 
And the wave of their crimson mantles'? 

And the golden crown of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there — 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair I " 

" Well saw 1 the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe ; 

No maiden was by their side ! " 

LuDwiG Uhland. (German.) 
Translation of Henry W. LoNGrELLow. 



iHott)cr anb paet. 

TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
For ever instead. 

What art can a woman be good at ? oh, vain ! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the 
pain I 
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! 5"ou were strong as you 
pressed. 

And I proud by that test. 

What art 's for a woman ! To hold on her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her 
throat 
Cling, struggle a little ! to sew by degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little 
coat ! 

To dream and to dote. 

To teach them. . . It stings there. I made them 
indeed 
Speak plain the word " country," I taught them 
no doubt 
That a country 's a thing men should die for at 
need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed. . . my beautiful 
eyes ! . . 
I exulted I nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the sur- 
prise. 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, 
then one kneels ! 

God ! how the house feels ! 



ou4 



POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SOEBOW. 



At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and 
how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be 
spoiled. 
In return would fan off every fiy from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

There was triumph at Turin. '• Aneona was 
free I " 
And some one came out of the cheers in the 
street 
With a face pale as stone, to say something to 
me. 
— My Guido was dead I — I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it ; friends soothed me : my grief looked 
sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the 
time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
strained 

To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more 
strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. " I was not to faint. 
One loved me for two . . . would be with me ere 
long : 
And ' viva Italia ' he died for, our saint. 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Xanni would add " he was safe, and aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was 
imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed. 
To live on for the rest.*' 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — 
" Shot, 
Tell his mother." Ah, ah, " his.'" "their" mother; 
not " mine." 
No voice says " my mother " again to me. What I 
You think Guido forgot ? 



Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heav- 
en, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of 
woe? 
I think not. Themselves were too latelv for- 
given 
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so 
The above and below. 

Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through 
the dark 
To the face of thy mother I consider, I pray. 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes 
turned away, 

And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead ! but that 's out of nature ; 
we all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always 
keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. 
And when Italy's made, for what end is it 
done, 

If we have not a son 1 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her 
sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of 
men? 
When your guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short, 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, 
green, and red, 
When you have your country from mountain to 
sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your 
bells low. 
And burn your lights faintly ! My country is 
there. 
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, 
My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 



TEE FISEIXG SOSG. 



565 



Forgive me. Some women bear children in 


1 
Yet the soul hath life diviner ; 


strength, 


Its past returns no more. 


And bite back the cry of their pain in self- 


But in echoes, that answer the minor 


scom, 


Of the boat-song, from the shore. 


But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at 




length 


And the ways of God are darkness ; 


Into wail such as this I — and we sit on forlorn 


His judgment waiteth long : 


When the man-child is born. 


He breaks the heart of a woman 




With a fisherman's careless song. 


Dead I one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea ! 


KosE Terry Cooke. 


Both I both my boys 1 If in keeping the feast 




You want a great song for your Italy free, 




Let none look at me I 


Z\)t OMb i!lin-or. 


Elizabeth Bakeett Brow>txg. 


Oft I see at twilight. 




In the hollow gloom 




Of the dim old mirror 


^Ik fisliing Song. 


Phantasmal faces loom ; 


Dowx in the wide, gray river 


Xoble antique faces 


The current is sweeping strong ; 


Sad as with the weight 


Over the wide, gray river 


Of some ancient sorrow, 


Floats the fisherman's song. 


Some ancestral fate : 


The oar-stroke times the singing, 


• 
Little rose-lipped faces, 


The song falls with the oar ; 


Locks of golden shine. 


And an echo in both is ringing, 


Laughing eyes of childhood 


I thought to hear no more. 


Looking into mine : 


Out of a deeper current 


Sweet auroral faces. 


The song brings back to me 


Like the morning's bloom ; 


A cry from mortal silence, 


Ah, how long and long ago, 


Of mortal agony. 


Shrouded for the tomb I 


Life that was spent and vanished. 


In a bridal chamber 


Love that had died of w rong. 


Once the mirror hung, 


Hearts that are dead in living. 


Draperies of Indian looms 


Come back in the fisherman's song. 


Over it were flung. 


I see the maples leafing. 


From its gilded sconces. 


Just as they leafed before ; 


Fretted now with mould. 


The green grass comes no greener 


"^"axen tapers glimmered 


Down to the very shore — 


On carcanets of gold. 


With the rude strain swelling, sinking. 


Perfumes of the summer night 


In the cadence of days gone by, 


Were through the lattice blown, 


As the oar. from the water drinking. 


Scents of brier-roses 


Ripples the mirrored sky. 


And meadows newly mown. 



566 



P0E3IS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The mirror, then, looked eastward 
And caught the morning's bloom, 

And flooded with its rosy gold 
The dream-light of the room. 

To-night 'tis looking westward 

Toward the sunset wall : 
The wintry day is waning, 

The dead leaves drift and fall. 

All about the hearth-stone 

The whitening ashes blow, 
The wind is wailing an old song 

Heard long and long ago. 

Like the dead leaves drifting 

Through the wintry air, 
Like white ashes sifting 

O'er the hearth-stone bare. 

Sad ancestral faces, 

Wan as moonlit snow, 
Haunt the dim old mirror 

That knew them long ago. 

Sarah gELEX Whitman. 



i3reak, Break, Creak. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

Oh well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 



And the stately ships go on. 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



^\)z JDags tl)at are no more. 

Tears, idle tears ! I know not what they mean. 
Tears, from the depth of some divine despair, 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under-world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge : 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dekr as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
death in life ! the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



PAET Till. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



I KNOTT more than Apollo ; 
For oft, when he lies sleeping, 

I behold the stars 

At mortal wars, 
And the rounded welkin weeping. 
The moon embraces her shepherd ; 
And the queen of love her warrior ; 

While the first doth horn 

The stars of the morn, 
And the next the heavenly farrier. 



With a host of furious fancies, 
Whereof I am commander — 

With a burning spear, 

And a horse of air, 
To the wilderness I wander ; 
With a knight of ghosts and shadows, 
I summoned am to tourney. 

Ten leagues beyond 

The wide world's end — 
Methinks it is no journey ! 

T03I O" BEDLA3I, 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



On Trinitye Mondaye in the morne, 
This sore battayle was doom'd to be, 

Wher manye a knighte cry'd, Well-awaye ! — 
Alacke, it was the more pittie. 

Ere the first crowinge of the cocke, 
Whenas the kinge in his bed laye, 

He thoughte Sir Gawaine to him came, 
And there to him these wordes did saye : 

" Nowe, as you are mine uncle deare, 
And as you prize your life, this daye, 

Oh meet not with your foe in fighte ; 
Putt off the battayle, if yee maye ! 

" For Sir Launcelot is nowe in Fraunce, 
And with him many an hardye knighte, 

Who will within this moneth be backe. 
And will assiste yee in the fighte." 

The kinge then called his nobles all, 

Before the breakinge of the daye, 
And tolde them hoAve Sir Gawaine came. 

And there to him these wordes did saye. 

His nobles all this counsayle gave : 

That, earlye in the morning, hee 
Shold send awaye an herauld at armes. 

To aske a parley faire and free. 

Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose. 
The best of all that with him were. 

To parley with the foe in field, 

And make with him agreement faire. 



The king he charged all his hoste 

In readinesse there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, 

Unless a sword drawne they sholde see. 

And Mordred, on the other parte, 

Twelve of his knights did likewise bringe 

The beste of all his companye. 

To holde the parley with the kinge. 

Sir Mordred alsoe charged his hoste 

In readiness there for to bee ; 
But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre. 

But if a sworde drawne they sholde see. 

For he durste not his uncle truste. 

Nor he his nephewe, sothe to tell ; 
Alacke ! it was a woefulle case. 

As ere in Christen tie bef elle. 

But when they were together mette, 
And both to faire accordance broughte, 

And a month's league betweene them sette. 
Before the battayle sholde be foughte, 

An addere crepte forthe of a bushe, 

Stunge one o' the king's knightes on the knee ; 
Alacke ! it was a woefulle chance. 

As ever was in Christentie. 

When the knighte found him wounded sore. 
And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there. 

His sworde he from his scabberde drewe — 
A piteous case, as ye shall heare. 



570 P0E3IS OF THE 


UIA&INATION. 


For when the two hostes sawe the sworde, 
They joyned battayle instantlye 

Till of so manye noble knightes 

On one side there were left but three. 


" Alas ! " then sayd the noble king, 
" That I should live this sight to see ! — 

To see this good knight here be slaine, 
All for his love in helping mee ! " 


For all were slaine that durst abide, 
And but some fewe that fled awaye ; 

Ah mee ! it was a bloody e fielde, 

As ere was foughte on summer's daye. 


He put his speare into his reste. 
And to Sir Mordred loud gan crye : 

" Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde ! 
For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye ! " 


Upon King Arthur's own partye 
Onlye himselfe escaped there, 

And Lukyn, duke of Gloster, free — 
And the king's butler, Bedevere. 


Sir Mordred lifted up his sworde. 
And fierce to meet the king ran hee. 

The king his speare he through him thrust — 
A fathom thorow his bodie. 


And when the king beheld his knightes . 

All dead and scattered on the molde. 
The teares fast trickled downe his face — 

That manlye face in fight so bolde. 


When Mordred felt the stroke of death, 
And found that he was wounded soe, 

He thruste himselfe upon the speare. 
And strucke the king a deadlye blowe. 


" Nowe reste yee all, brave knights," he said — 
" Soe true and faithful to your trust ! 

And must yee then, yee valiant hearts, 
Be lefte to moulder into dust '? 


Then grimmlye dyed Sir Mordered, 

Presentlye upon that tree ; 
And bloody streames ranne from the kinge. 

Ere to the duke returned hee. 


" Most loyal have yee been to mee. 
Most true and faithful unto deathe ; 

And, oh ! to rayse yee up againe. 

How freelye could I yield my breathe ! 


Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake : 

" Sir knighte, thou hast been faithfully tryde ; 
Nowe take my sword Excalibar, 

That hangs so freelye by my syde — 


" But see, the traitor 's yet alive ! 

Lo where hee stalkes among the deade ! 
Nowe bitterlye he shall abye, 

And vengeance fall upon his head." 


" Oh take my sworde Excalibar, 
And there into the river throwe ; 

For here, henceforth, bencthe this tree, 
All use of weapons I foregoe. 


" Oh staye, my liege ! " then sayd the duke ; 

" Oh staye for love and charitie ! 
Remember what the vision spake, 

Nor meete your foe, if it may bee." 


"And fare thee well, thou trustye sword! 

A better neer had valiant knighte ; 
With thee full ofte, and many a daye. 

Have I withstood my foe in fighte. 


" Oh staye mee not, thou worthye wight ! 

This debt my loyal knights I owe ; 
Betide me life, betide me death, 

I will avenge them of their foe." 


" With this good fauchion in my hande, 
Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde ; 

But nowe the fatalle houre is come, 
That never more I may thee weelde." 


Then straite he grasped his trusty speare, 
And on his horse then mounted hee : 

As his butler holpe him to his horse 
His bowels gushed to his knee. 


The duke to the river side he went. 

And there his owne sword in threwe he ; 

But he kept back Excalibar — 
He kept it back in privitie. 



JIORTE D-AETHUB. 



571 



For all of coleyne was the blade, 
And all the hilte of precious stone : 

" And ever alacke I " then sayd the knighte, 
•• Must such a sword awave be throwne i " 

Then backe he came unto the kinge, 
"Wlio sayd, " Sir Lukyn, what did yee see ? 

" Xorhing, mv lie2:e. save that the -winde 
Blewe oer the waters faire and free." 

'• Oh goe againe," then said the kinge, 
" good Syr Lukyn, goe againe ! 

Into the rivere thi'owe my sword, 

Xor keepe me lingering here in paine." 

The duke then to the river went. 

And the king's scabbard in threwe hee ; 

But hee kej)t backe Excalibar, 
And hid it undemethe a tree. 

Then backe he came to tell the kinge, 

Who sayde, " Sir Lukyn. sawe ye oughte ? ' 

"Xothinge. mv liege, save that the winde 
Xowe with the angrye waters fought." 

" Lukyn. Lukyn,"' said the kinge. 

•• Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye I 
Alacke I whom may wee ever tniste. 

When suche a knighte soe false can bee ? 

'• Saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead, 
All for a sword that wins thine eye ? 

Now goe againe, and throwe it in, 
Or here the one of us shall dye." 

The duke, all shent with this rebuke, 
Xo aunswere made unto the kinge 

But to the rivere tooke the sworde. 

And threwe it as far as he coulde flinge. 

A hande and an arme did meete the sworde, 
And flourished three times in the air ; 

Then sunke benethe the renninge streme, 
And of the duke was scene noe mair. 

All sore astonied stood the duke — 
He stood as still as still mote bee : 

Then hastend backe to tell the kinge — 
But he was sone from under the tree. 



But to what place he cold not tell, 
For never after hee did him see ; 

But hee sawe a barge goe from the land. 
And hee heard ladyes howle and crye. 

And whether the kinge were there or not, 
flee never knewe. nor ever colde ; 

For from that sad and direfulle daye 
Hee never more was scene on molde. 

Ajfojmioirs 



So all day long the noise of battle rolled 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fallen in Lyon n ess alx)ut their lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his woimd was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere. the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
•• The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our soids with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot. as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made — 
Though Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten through the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Then, therefore, take my brand Excalibur. 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 
And took it, and have worn it. like a king : 
And. wheresoever I am stmg or told 
In after-time, this also shall be known : 



572 



P0E2IS OF THE UlAaiNATION. 



But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle meer : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the mined shrine he stept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all tlie haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eves were dazzled, as he stood 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw ; but at the last it seemed 
Better to leave Excalibur concealed 
There in the many-knotted water-flags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou performed my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard ?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
"Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had followed, either hand 
Or voice, or else a motion of the meer. 
This is a shameful thing, for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the meer, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought ; 



But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men, 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to after-time, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought bv the lonelv maiden of the Lake. 
Xine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the after-time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 
heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" 1 heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightlv, traitor-hearted I Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widowed of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet. for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence; 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slav thee with mv hands." 



MORTE DWRTHUR, 



573 



Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere. and ran. 
And leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword, 
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great 

brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirled in an 

arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern mom. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or 
seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King. I closed mine eyelids, lest the gen>s 
Should blind my ptirpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see. here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Xot though I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder Mlt. 
Then with lx)th hands I flung him. wheeling him ; 
But when I looked again, l^ehold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the meer." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh : "tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin : yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.~ 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded through his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
And rising bore him through the place of tombs. 

But as he walked. King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sighed the King. 



Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " ^{uick, 

quick I 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his bi-eath, and looking, as he walked. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black clifi clanged round him, as he based 
His feet on Juts of slipper}- crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo I the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusk}- barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem, 
Beneath them : and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them 

rose 
A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, 
And. as it were, one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
Then murmured Arthur, •• Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three 

Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his 

hands. 
And called him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the withered moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops 
Of onset : and the light and lustrous curls - 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parched with 

dust: 
Or. clotted into points and hanging loose. 
Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his 

lips. 
So like a shattered column lay the King : 



574 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATlOy. 



Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spiu' to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
*' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 1 go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes f 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that 

led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And 1, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the-barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new, 
•And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure I but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowering hollows crowned with summer 

sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 



So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted 

swan, 
That, fluting a wild carol, ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the meer the wailing died away. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



(IEl)otntt6 tl)e Ulinttter. 

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank ; 

A f erlie he spied wi' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eildon tree. 

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk. 

Her mantle o' the velvet f yne ; 
At ilka tett of her horse's mane 

Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas he pulled afl his cap. 
And louted low down to his knee; 

" All hail, thou mighty queen of heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth I never did see." 

" Oh no, oh no, Thomas ! " she said, 
" That name does not belang to me ; 

I am but the queen of fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee. 

" Harp and carp, Thomas ! " she said, 

" Harp and carp along wi' me ! 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips. 

Sure of your bodie 1 will be." 

" Betide me weal, betide me woe. 
That weird shall never daunton me." 

Syne he has kissed her rosy lips. 
All imderneath the Eildon tree. 

" Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said ; 

" True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
And ye maun serve me seven years, 

Through weal or woe as may chance to be." 



THE WEE, WEE MAN. 



575 



She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 

She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind ; 
And aye, when'er her bridle rung, 

The steed flew swifter than the wind. 

And they rade on, and farther on — 
The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 

Until they reached a desert wide, 
And living land was left behind. 

" Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, 

And lean your head upon my knee 1 
Abide and rest a little space. 

And 1 will shew you ferlies three. 

" Oh see ye not yon narrow road, 

So thick beset with thorns and briers f 

That is the path of righteousness, 
Though after it but few enquires. 

"And see ye not that braid, braid road, 

That lies across that lily leven ? 
That is the path of wickedness, 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 

" And see not ye that bonny road. 

That winds about the f ernie brae 1 
That is the road to fair Elfland, 

Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

" But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if you speak word in Elfyn land, 

Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 

Oh they rade on, and farther on, 

And they waded through rivers aboon the knee ; 
And they saw neither sun nor moon. 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 

It was mirk, mirk night, and there was nae stern 
light, 

And they waded through red blude to the knee ; 
For a' the blude that 's shed on earth 

Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green, 

And she pu'd an apple frae a tree : 
" Take this for thy wages, true Thomas — 

It will give thee tongue that can never lie." 



" My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said ; 

" A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
I neither dought to buy nor sell, 

At fair or tryst where I may be. 

" I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." 

" Now hold thy peace 1 " the lady said, 
" For as I say, so must it be." 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past. 
True Thomas on earth was never seen. 

Anonymous. 



^)i)z toee, toee iHan. 

As I was walking by my lane, 

Atween a water and a wa. 
There sune 1 spied a wee, wee man — 

He was the least that ere I saw. 

His legs were scant a shathmont's length, 
And sma and limber was his thie ; 

Between his een there was a span. 

Betwixt his shoulders there were ells three. 

He has tane up a meikle stane, 
And flang 't as far as I cold see ; 

Ein thouch I had been Wallace wicht, 
I dought na lift it to my knie. 

" wee, wee man, but ye be Strang ! 

Tell me whar may thy dwelling be ? " 
" I dwell beneth that bonnie bouir — 

Oh will ye gae wi me and see 1 " 

On we lap, and awa we rade, 

Till we cam to a bonny green ; 
We lichted syne to bait our steid, 

And out there cam a lady sheen 

Wi four and twentie at her back, 
A comely cled in glistering green ; 

Thouch there the king of Scots had stude, 
The warst micht weil hae been his queen. 



576 



POEJIS OF THE niAGlXATIOX. 



On syne we past wi wondering cheir, 

Till we cam to a bonny ha ; 
The roof was o' the beaten gowd, 

The flure was o' the crystal a'. 

When we cam there, wi wee, wee knichts 
War ladies dancing, jimp and sma ; 

But in the twinkling of an eie 
Baith green and ha war clein awa. 

Anontmous. 



^\\z iUerrg Pranks of Bobin (5oob- 
-fcllotD. 

From Oberon, in fairy land, 

The king of ghosts and shadowes there, 
Mad Robin, I, at his command, 

Am sent to view the night-sports here. 
What revell rout 
Is kept about 
In every corner where I go, 
I will o'ersee 
And merrie be. 
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho ! 

More swift than lightning can I flye 

About the aery welkin soone, 
And in a minute's space descrye 

Each thing that 's done belowe the moone. 
There 's not a hag 
Or ghost shall wag. 
Or cry Vare goblins ! where I go ; 
But Robin, I, 
Their feats will spy. 
And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! 

Whene'er such wanderers I meete, 

As from their night-sports they trudge home, 
With counterfeiting voice I greete, 
And call them on with me to roarae. 
Thro' woods, thro' lakes, 
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes, 
Or else unseene, with them I go — 
All in the nicke, 
To play some tricke, 
And frolick it with ho, ho, ho ! 



Sometimes I meete them like a man — 

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; 
And to a horse 1 turn me can, 

To trip nnd trot about them round ; 
But if, to ride. 
My backe they stride, 
More swift than wind away I goe ; 
O'er hedge and lands, 
Through pools and ponds, 
I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho I 

When lads and lasses merry be, 

With possets, and with junkets fine, 
Unseene of all the company, 
I eat their cakes, and sip their wine ; 
And to make sport, 
I fume and snort. 
And out the candles I do blow. 
The maids I kiss ; 
They shrieke, Who's this? 
1 answer nought but ho, ho, ho ! 

Yet now and then, the maids to please, 

At midnight I card up their wool ; 
And while they sleepe and take their ease. 
With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
I grind at mill 
Their malt up still ; 
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. 
If any wake, 
And would me take, 
I wend me laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

When house or hearth doth sluttish lye, 

I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 
The bedd-clothes from the bedd pull I, 
And in their ear I bawl too-whoo ! 
'Twixt sleepe and wake 
I do them take. 
And on the clay-cold floor them throw. 
If out they cry. 
Then forth I fly, 
And loudly laugh out ho, ho, ho ! 

When any need to borrow ought, 

We lend them what they do require ; 
And for the use demand we naught — 
Our owne is all we do desire. 
If to repay 
They do delay. 



THE FAIRY QUEEN. 



577 



Abroad amongst them then I go ; 

And night by night 

I them affright, 
With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho ! 

When lazie queans have nought to do 

But study how to cog and lye. 
To make debate and mischief too, 
'Twixt one another secretly, 
1 marke their gloze. 
And it disclose 
To them whom they have wronged so. 
When I have done 
I get me gone, 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 

When men do traps and engines set 

In loope holes, where the vermine ereepe, 
Who from their foldes and houses get 
Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe, 
I spy the gin. 
And enter in. 
And seeme a vermin taken so ; 
But when they there 
Approach me neare, 
I leap out laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

By wells and rills, in meadowes green. 

We nightly dance our hey-day guise ; 
And to our fairye kinge and queene 

We chaunt our moon-lighte minstrelsies. 
When larkes gin singe 
Away we fiinge. 
And babes new-born steale as we go ; 
And shoes in bed 
We leave instead, 
And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I 
Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 
And, for my prankes, men call me by 
The name of Robin Good-Fellow. 

Friends, ghosts, and sprites 
Who haunt the nightes, 
The hags and gobblins, do me know ; 
And beldames old 
My f eates have told — 
So vale, vale, J Ho, ho, ho ! 

Anontmotjs. 



3Q 



Come, follow, follow me — 
You, fairy elves that be. 
Which circle on the green — 
Come, follow Mab, your queen ! 
Hand in hand let 's dance around, 
For this place is fairy ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest. 

Unheard and unespied. 

Through keyholes we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves, 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And if the house be foul 
With platter, dish, or bowl, 
Up stairs we nimbly creep, 
And find the sluts asleep ; 
There we pinch their arms and thighs. 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

But if the house be swept, 
And from uncleanness kept, 
We praise the household maid, 
And duly she is paid ; 

For we use, before we go, 

To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a mushroom's head 

Our table-cloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye or wheat 

Is manchet, which we eat : 
Pearly drops of dew we drhik, 
In aeorn-eups, filled to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snails, 
Between two cockles stewed, 
Is meat that 's easily chewed ; 
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, 
Do make a dish that 's wondrous nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 

Serve us for our minstrelsy ; 

Grace said, we dance a while. 

And so the time beguile ; 
And if the moon doth hide her head. 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 



578 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



On tops of dewy grass 

So nimbly do we pass, 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk ; 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

Anonymous. 



W^t iTaitks' Song. 

We dance on hills above the wind, 
And leave our footsteps there behind ; 
Which shall to after ages last, 
When all our dancing days are past. 

Sometimes we dance upon the shore, 
To whistling winds and seas that roar ; 
Then we make the wind to blow. 
And set the seas a-dancing too. 

The thunder's noise is our delight, 
And lightnings make us day by night ; 
And in the air we dance on high. 
To the loud music of the sky. 

About the moon we make a ring, 
And falling stars we wanton fling. 
Like squibs and rockets, for a toy ; 
While what frights others is our joy. 

But when we'd hunt away our cares, 
We boldly mount the galloping spheres ; 
And, riding so from east to west. 
We chase each nimble zodiac beast. 

Thus, giddy grown, we make our beds. 
With thick, black clouds to rest our heads, 
And flood the earth with our dark showers, 
That did but sprinkle these our bowers. 

Thus, having done with orbs and sky, 
Those mighty spaces vast and high, 
Then down we come and take the shapes, 
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes. 

Xext, turned to mites in cheese, forsooth, 
We get into some hollow tooth ; 
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall. 
We frisk and dance, the devil and all. 



Then we change our wily features 
Into yet far smaller creatures. 
And dance in joints of gouty toes, 
To painful tunes of groans and woes. 



Anonymous. 



Song of tl)e £aix^. 

Over hill, over dale. 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander everywhere, 
Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
And I serve the fairy queen. 
To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
In their gold coats, spots you see : 
These be rubies, fairy favors — 
In those freckles live their savors. 
I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
And hang a pearl in eveiy cowslip's ear. 

William Shakespeare. 



faixrs Song. 

Shed no tear ! oh shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! oh weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core, 
Dry your eyes ! oh dry your eyes ! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up, look up ! I flutter now 
On this fresh pomegranate-bough. 
See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! oh shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
Adieu, adieu I 

John Keats. 



LA BELLE DA3IE SAXS MERCL 579 




She found me roots of relish sweet, 


Song of i^airies. 


And honey wild, and manna dew : 


We the fairies, blithe and antic, 
Of dimensions not gigantic, 


And sure in language strange she said, 
" I love thee true." 


Though the moonshine mostly keep us. 


She took me to her elfin grot. 


Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 


And there she wept, and sighed full sore ; 


Stolen sheets are always sweeter ; 
Stolen kisses much completer ; 


And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
With kisses four. 


Stolen looks are nice in chapels : 
Stolen, stolen be your apples. 


And there she lulled me asleep ; 

And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide ! 


When to bed the world are bobbing, 


The latest dream I ever dreamed 


Then's the time for orchard-robbing ; 


On the cold hill's side. 


Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 
Were it not for stealing, stealing. 

Thomas Eaxdolph. (Latin.) 
Translation of Leigh HuifT. 


I saw pale kings and princes too — 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried, " La belle dame sans merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! " 




I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 


£a Belle Dame sans ilterci. 


With horrid warning gaped Avide ; 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms I 
Alone and palely loitering ? 


And I awoke and found me here. 
On the cold hill's side. 


The sedge has withered from the lake. 


And this is why I sojourn here, 


And no birds sing. 


Alone and palely loitering. 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
So haggard and so woe-begone ? 


Though the sedge is withered from the lake. 

And no bii'ds sing. 

JoHx Kt:ats, 


The squirrel's granary is full. 




And the harvest 's done. 




I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and ferer dew ; 


Hiltnenw. 


And on thy cheeks a fading rose 


BoxxT Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 


Fast withereth too. 


But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 


I met a lady in the mead. 

Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 


Xor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 

It was only to hear the yorlin sing. 

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 

The scarlet hypp. and the hind berry, 


I made a garland for her head. 


And the nut that hung f rae the hazel-tree ; 


And bracelets too, and fragrant zone : 


For Kilmenv was pure as pure could be. 


She looked at me as she did love, 


But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', 


And made sweet moan. 


And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw ; 




Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 


I set her on my pacing steed. 
And nothing else saw all day long ; 


And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 


For sidelong would she bend, and sing 


When many a day had come and fled. 


A fairy song. 


When grief grew calm, and hope was dead. 



580 



POEJIS OF THE niAGIXATIOX. 



When mass for Kilmenv's soul had been sung. 
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the dead- 
bell rung; 
Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, 
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ; 
When the ingle lowed with an eiry lerae. 
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 
Lang hae we sought both holt and den — 
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where gx)t you that joup o" the lily sheen ? 
That bonny snood of the birk sae green? 
And these roses, the fairest that ever was seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny. where have you been ? " 

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her ee. 
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where. 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not de- 
clare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew. 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 

blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung. 
And the aii's of heaven played round her tongue. 
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, 
And a land where sin had never been — 
A land of love, and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
Wiiere the river swa'd a living stream, 
And the light a pure celestial l3eam : 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon greenwood there is a walk. 
And in that waik there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike. 
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 

And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene. Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay ; 



But the air was soft and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee. 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 

She 'wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim. 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings around were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer : 
" What spirit has brought this mortal here ! " 

" Lang have I journeyed the world wide," 
A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
■" Baith night and day I have watched the fair 
Eident a thousand years and mair. 
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 
Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
But sinless virgin, free of stain 
In mind and body, fand I nane. 
Xever, since the banquet of time. 
Found I a virgin in her prime. 
Till late this bonny maiden I saw, 
As spotless as the morning snaw. 
Full twenty years she has lived as free 
As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 
I have brought her away frae the snares of men, 
That sin or death she may never ken." 
They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair : 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair ; 
And round came manv a blooming fere. 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye 're welcome here ; 
Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
Oh. blest be the day Kilmeny was born! 
Xow shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken, what a woman may be ! 
Many a lang year in sorrow and pain. 
Many a lang year through the world we've gane, 
Commissioned to watch fair womankind. 
For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind. 
We have watched their steps as the dawning shone, 
And deep in the greenwood walks alone; 
By lily bower and silken bed 
The viewless tears have o'er them shed : 
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep. 
Or left the couch of love to weep. 
We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time must 

come, 
And the angels will weep at the day of doom ! 



KILMEXY. 



581 



•■ Oh. ^roiild the fairest of mortal kiud 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye I 
Oh. sweet to heaven the maiden's prayer. 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair I 
And dear to heaven the words of truth 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth I 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body fair I 

" bonny Kilmeny I free frae sfain, 
If ever you seek the world again — 
That world of sin. of sorrow and fear — 
Oh. tell of the joys that are waiting here : 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times that shall 
be." 

Thev lifted Kilmenv, thev led her awav. 
And she walked in the light of a sunless day. 
The skv was a dome of crvstal briorht. 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
The emerald fields were of dazzlino: glow. 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might fade ; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song — she heard it sung. 
She kend not where : but sae sweetlv it rung. 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the mom — 
•• Oh I blest be the day Kilmeny was born I 
Xow shall the land of the spirits see, 
Xow shall it ken, what a woman may be I 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright. 
A borrowed gleid fi'ae the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun — 
ShaU wear away, and be seen nae mair ; 
And the angels shall miss them, travelling the air, 
But lang, lang after baith night and day, 
When the sun and the world have dyed away, 
When the sinner has gane to his waesorae doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom I " 

They bore her away, she wist not how, 
For she felt not arm nor rest below : 



But so swift they wained her through the light, 

"Twas like the motion of sound or sight ; 

They seeemed to split the gales of air, 

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 

Unnumbered groves below them grew : 

They came, they past, and backward flew, 

Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 

In moment seen, in moment gone. 

Oh, never vales to mortal ^iew 

Appeared like those o'er which they flew — 

That land to human spirits given. 

The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 

From whence they can view the world below, 

And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow — 

More glory yet unmeet to know. 

They bore her far to a mountain green. 
To see what mortal never had seen ; 
And they seated her high on a purple sward, 
And bade her heed what she saw and heard, 
And note the changes the spirits wi-ought ; 
For now she lived in the land of thought. 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies. 
But a crystal dome of a thousand dies : 
She looked, and she saw nae land aright, 
But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
And radiant beings went and came, 
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
She hid her een fi"ae the dazzling view : 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw a sun on a summer sky, 
And clouds of amber sailing by ; 
A lovely land beneath her lay, 
And that land had glens and mountains gray; 
And that land had valleys and hoaiy piles, 
And marled seas, and a thousand isles ; 
Its fields were speckled, its forests green. 
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray. 
Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung ; 
On every shore they seemed to l>e hung : 
For there they were seen on their downward plain 
A thousand times and a thousand again ; 
In winding lake and placid firth — 
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 

Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve. 
For she found her heart to that land did cleave : 



582 



POEMS OF THE UIAGIXATIOX. 



She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 

She saw the deer run down the dale : 

She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, 

And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 

And she thought she had seen the land before. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne, 
The faii'est that ever the sun shone on ! 
A lion licked her hand of milk, 
And she held him in a leish of silk, 
And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee, 
With a silver wand and melting ee — 
Her sovereign shield, till love stole in, 
And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gruff, untoward bedesman came, 
And hundit the lion on his dame; 
And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless ee, 
She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 
And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled, 
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead ; 
A coffin was set on a distant plain. 
And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 
Then bonny Kilmeny's heart grew sair. 
And she turned away, and could look nae mair. 

Then the gruff, grim carle girned amain, 
And they trampled him down, but he rose again ; 
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, 
Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear; 
And, weening his head was danger-preef 
When crowned with the rose and clover leaf, 
He growled at the carle, and chased him away 
To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and he gecked at heaven ; 
But his mark was set, and his arles given. 
Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled. 
One half of all the glowing world, 
Where oceans rolled and rivers ran, 
To bound the aims of sinful man. 
She saw a people fierce and fell. 
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 
And she herked on her ravening crew. 
Till the cities and towei-s were wrapt in a blaze, 
And the thunder it roared o'er the lands and the seas. 



The widows they wailed, and the red blood ran, 
And she threatened an end to the race of man. 
She never lened, nor stood in awe, 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the eagle swinked for life, 
And brainzelled up a mortal strife ; 
But flew she north or flew she south, 
She met wi' the growl of the lion's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waefu' maen. 
The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, 
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, 
Before she sey another flight. 
To play wi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, 
So far surpassing nature's law. 
The singer's voice wad sink away, 
And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by 
And all was love and harmony ; 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away. 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends she had left in her own countrye, 
To tell of the place where she had been, 
And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn the living maidens fair, 
The loved of heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose minds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep. 
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened she lay her lane. 
All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene. 
\ATien seven long years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name. 
Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny came hame! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still and steadfast was her ee ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare, 
For there was no pride nor passion there; 
And the soft desire of maidens' een. 
In that mild face could never be seen. 



THE FAIBIES OF THE CALDOX LOW. 



583 



Her seymar was the lily flower, 

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 

And her voice like the distant melodye 

That floats along the twilight sea. 

But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 

And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 

Her holy hymns nnheard to sing. 

To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 

But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 

The wild beasts of the hills were cheered ; 

The wolf played blythely round the field, 

The lordly byson lowed and kneeled ; 

The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 

And cowed aneath her lily hand. 

And when at even the woodlands rtmg. 

When hymns of other worlds she sung 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion I 

The wild beasts of the forest came. 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. 

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 

And mnrmnred and looked with anxious pain. 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock. 

The corby left her houf in the rock ; 

The black-bird alang wi" the eagle flew ; 

The hind came tripping o'er the dew : 

The wolf and the kid their raike began ; 

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 

The hawk and the hem attour them hung. 

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their 

young ; 
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : 
It was like an even in a sinless world I 

THien a month and day had come and gane, 
Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But oh. the words that fell from her mouth 
Were words of wonder, and words of truth I 
But all the land were in fear and dread. 
For they kend na whether she was living or dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the land of thought again. 

JA3CES Hogg. 



Z\)C i^airies of tlic Calbon Coro. 

A MIDSUilMER LEGKST). 

" AxD where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me f " 

•• IVe been to the top of the Caldon Low, 
The midsummer-night to see.*' 

" And what did you see, my Maiy, 
All up on the Caldon Low ? " 

'• I saw the glad sunshine come down, 
And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon hiU ? " 
" I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the ears of the green com fill." 

" Oh ! tell me all, my Maiy — 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies, 

Last night on the Caldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother ; 

And Ksten, mother of mine : 
A himdred fairies danced last night, 

And the harpers they were nine ; 

" Aud their harp-strings rung so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 

But oh I the words of theii- talking 
Were merrier far than aU." 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ? " 

" I'll tell you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way, 

" Some of them played with the water. 

And roUed it down the hill : 
• And this.' they said. ' shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May : 
And a busy man will the miller be 

At dawning of the day. 



584 



POEMS OF THE UI AGINATION. 



" ' Oh ! the miller, how he will laugh 

When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 

Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' 

" And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth, 

And blew both loud and shrill ; 

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go 

Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's corn. 

" ' Oh ! the poor, blind widow, 
Though she has been blind so long, 

She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone, 
And the corn stands tall and strong.' 

" And some they brought the brown lint-seed, 
And flung it down from the Low; 

' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, 
In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' Oh ! the poor, lame weaver, 

How will he laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 

All full of flowers by night ! ' 

" And then outspoke a brownie. 

With a long beard on his chin ; 
' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 

' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 

And I >vant to spin another ; 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 

And an apron for her mother.' 

" Willi that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon Low 
There was no one left but me. 

" And on the top of the Caldon Low 

The mists were cold and gray. 
And nothing 1 saw but the mossy stones 

That round about me lay. 



" But, coming down from the hill-top, 

I heard afar below, 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how the wheel did go. 

" And I peeped into the widow's field, 

And, sure enough, were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn, 

All standing stout and green. 

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole. 

To see if the flax were sprung ; 
And I met the weaver at his gate. 

With the good news on his tongue. 

"Now this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did see ; 

So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother, 

For I'm tired as I can be." 

Mary Howitt. 



01) ! tDl)crc bo i^airics ijibc tlicir ^tab^ ? 

Oh ! where do fairies hide their heads. 

When snow lies on the hills, 
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds. 

And crystallized their rills'? 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plain ; 
And draughts of dew they cannot sip, 

Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells 

They plunge beneath the waves. 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves. 
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius 

Carousals they maintain ; 
And cheer their little spirits thus. 

Till green leaves come again. 

When they return, there will be mirth 

And music in the air, 
And fairy wings upon the earth, 

And mischief everywhere. 
The maids, to keep the elves aloof. 

Will bar the doors in vain ; 
No key-hole will be fairy-proof, 

When green leaves come again. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



I 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



585 



iJl)e (Eulprit £a'Q^. 



" Mt visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo ! 
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, 
I see old fairy land's miraculous show ! 

Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, 
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf -gold, skim the breeze. 
And fairies, swarming — ." 

Tennant's Anster Faik. 
I. 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night — 

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ; 

Naught is seen in the vault on high 

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 

And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 

A river of light on the welkin blue. 

The moon looks down on old Cronest ; 

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, 

And seems his huge gray form to throw 

In a silver cone on the wave below ; • 

His sides are broken by spots of shade, 

By the walnut-bough and the cedar made. 

And through their clustering branches dark 

Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 

Like starry twinkles that momently break 

Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. 

II. 

The stars are on the moving stream, 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still ; 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid ; 
And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katydid ; 
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, 

Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings. 
Ever a note of wail and woe, 

Till morning spreads her rosy wings, 
And earth and sky in her glances glow. 

III. 

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell : 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak. 



And he has awakened the sentry elve 

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 

To bid him ring the hour of twelve. 
And call the fays to their revelry ; 

Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 

('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell — ) 
'• Midnight comes, and all is well ! 

Hither, hither, wing your way ! 

'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." 

IV. 

They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the mullen's velvet screen ; 
Some on the backs of beetles fly 

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
high. 

And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 

They had driven him out by elfin power, 
And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast. 

Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, 

With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 
And some had opened the four-o'clock, 

And stole within its purple shade. 
And now they throng the moonlight glade, 

Above — below — on every side. 
Their little minim forms arrayed 

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! 

v. 

They come not now to print the lea. 
In freak and dance around the tree, 
Or at the mushroom board to sup. 
And drink the dew from the buttercup ; 
A scene of sorrow waits them now. 
For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 
He has loved an earthly maid, 
And left for her his woodland shade ; 
He has lain upon her lip of dew, 
And sunned him in her eye of blue. 
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair, 
And, nestling on her snowy breast. 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 
To the elfin court must haste away : 



586 



POEMS OF THE IMAGIXATIOX. 



And now they stand expectant there, 
To hear the doom of the culiDrit fay. 

VI. 

The throne was reared upon the grass, 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy — 
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 

On his brow the crown imperial shone. 
The prisoner fay was at his feet, 

And his peers were ranged around the throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air. 

He looked around and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave and his eye severe. 

But his voice in a softened accent broke : 

VII. 

" Fairy ! fairy ! list and mark : 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain — 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye ; 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree, 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 
But well I know Rer sinless mind 

Is pure as the angel forms above, 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind. 

Such as a spirit well might love ; 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint. 
Bitter had been thy punishment : 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; 
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings ; 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell ; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede ; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim, 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly : 
These it had been your lot to bear, 
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 
Now list, and mark our mild decree — 
Fairy, this your doom must be : 



VIII. 

'• Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 

Where the water bounds the elfin-land ; 

Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 

Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine. 

Then dart the glistening arch below. 

And catch a drop from his silver bow. 

The water-sprites will wield their arms 

And dash around, with roar and rave. 
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms ; 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in thy single might : 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, 
Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 

IX. 

" If the spray-bead gem be won, 

The stain of thy wing is washed away; 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye : 

Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 

Thou must reillume its spark. 

Mount thy steed and spur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy ; 

And when thou seest a shooting star. 

Follow it fast, and follow it far — 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light the elfin lamp again. 

Thou hast heard our sentence, fay ; 

Hence ! to the water-side, awav ! " 



The goblin marked his monarch well, 

He spake not, but he bowed him low. 
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, 

And turned him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly. 

His soiled wing has lost its power, 
And he winds adown the mountain high. 

For many a sore and weary hour. 
Through dreary beds of tangled fern, 
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, 
Over the grass and through the brake. 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 
Now o'er the violet's azure flush 

He skips along in lightsome mood ; 
And now he thrids the bramble-bush. 

Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 



THE CULPRIT FAY. 



587 



He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, 
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, 
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew w^eak. 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the ground outright, 

For rugged and dim was his onward track, 
But there came a spotted toad in sight. 

And he laughed as he jumped upon her back ; 
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist. 

He lashed her sides with an osier thong ; 
And now, through evening's dewy mist. 

With leap and spring they bound along, 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past. 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 

XI. 

Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light, 

In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap. 
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — 
A glittering arch of silver sheen, 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue. 
And dripping with gems of the river-dew. 

XII. 

The elfin cast a glance around. 

As he lighted down from his courser toad ; 
Then round his breast his wings he wound, 

And close to the river's brink he strode ; 
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer. 

Above his head his arms he threw, 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air. 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 

XIII. 

Up sprung the spirits of the waves. 

From the sea-silk b ds in their coral caves ; 

With snail-plate armor snatched in haste. 

They speed their way through the liquid waste ; 

Some are rapidly borne along 

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong; 

Some on the blood-red leeches glide 

Some on the stony star-fish ride. 



Some on the back of the lancing squab. 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings ; 
They cut the wave with the living oar, 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore. 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading fay. 

XIV. 

Fearlessly he skims along. 
His hope is high, and his limbs are strong ; 
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine, 

At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise. 
His back gleams bright above the brine, 

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide ; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold. 
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin. 
And the squab has thrown his javelin ; 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw. 
And the crab has struck with his giant claw ; 
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain ; 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight, 
Fairy ! naught is left but flight. 

XV. 

He turned him round, and fled amain 

With hurry and dash to the beach again ; 

He twisted over from side to side, 

And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 

The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, 

And with all his might he flings his feet, 

But the water-sprites are round him still, 

To cross his path and work him ill. 

They bade the wave before him rise : 

They flung the sea-fire in his eyes ; 

And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke. 

With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. 

Oh ! but a weary wight was he 

When he reached the foot of the dogwood-tree. 



588 



P0E3IS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



— Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore, 
He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 
He blessed the force of the charmed line. 
And he banned the water-goblin's spite, 
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine 
Their little wee faces above the brine. 

Giggling and laughing with all their might 
At the piteous hap of the fairy wight. 

XVI. 

Soon he gathered the balsam dew 

From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane-bud : 

Over each wound the balm he drew, 
And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. 

The mild west wind was soft and low. 

It cooled the heat of his burning brow ; 

And he felt new life in his sinews shoot. 

As he drank the juice of the calamus-root ; 

And now he treads the fatal shore, 

As fresh and vigorous as before. 

XVII. 

Wrapped in musing stands the sprite : 
'Tis the middle wane of night ; 

His task is hard, his way is far, 
But he must do his errand right 

Ere Dawning mounts her beamy car, 
And rolls her chariot-wheels of light ; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land — 
He must work with a human hand. 

XVIII. 

He cast a saddened look around ; 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
When, glittering on the shadowed ground, 

He saw a purple muscle-sliell ; 
Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow. 
And he pushed her over the yielding sand, 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 

As ever fairy had paddled in, 
For she glowed with purple paint without, 

And shone with silvery pearl within ; 
A sculler's notch in the stern he made, 
An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade ; 
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, 
And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. 



XIX. 

The imps of the river yell and rave ; 
They had no power above the wave ; 
But they heaved the billow before the prow, 

And they dashed the surge against her side. 
And they struck her keel with jerk and blow. 

Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. 
She whimpled about to the pale moonbeam. 
Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream ; 
And momently athwart her track 
The quarl upreared his island back, 
And the fluttering scallop behind would float, 
And patter the water about the boat ; 
But he bailed her out with his colen-bell. 

And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread. 
While on every side like lightning fell 

The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 

XX. 

Onward still he held his way. 

Till he came where the column of moonshine lay. 

And saw beneath the surface dim 

The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim ; 

Around him were the goblin train — 

But he sculled with all his might and main. 

And followed wherever the sturgeon led. 

Till he saw him upward point his head ; 

Then he dropped his paddle-blade. 

And held his colen -goblet up 

To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 

XXI. 

With sweeping tail and quivering fln 

Through the wave the sturgeon flew. 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin, 

He sprung above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light, 

He plunged him in the deep again, 
But he left an arch of silver bright, 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 

To see the puny goblin there ; 
He seemed an angel form of light, 

With azure wing and sunny hair. 

Throned on a cloud of purple fair. 
Circled with blue and edged with white, 
And sitting at the fall of even 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 



I 



THE CULPRIT FAY, 



589 



XXII. 

A moment, and its lustre Ml ; 

But ere it met the billow blue, 
He caught within his crimson bell 

A droplet of its sparkling dew — 
Joy to thee, fay ! thy task is done, 
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won. 
Cheerly ply thy dripping oar. 
And haste away to the elfin shore. 

XXIII. 

He turns, and, lo ! on either side 

The ripples on his path divide : 

And the track o'er which his boat must pass 

Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. 

Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, 

With snowy arms half-swelling out. 
While on the glossed and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loosely float ; 
They swim around with smile and song ; 

They press the bark with pearly hand, 
And gently urge her course along. 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And, as he lightly leaped to land. 
They bade adieu with nod and bow ; 

Then gayly kissed each little hand, 
And dropped in the crystal deep below. 

XXIV. 

A moment stayed the fairy there ; 

He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer ; 

Then spread his wings of gilded blue. 

And on to the elfin court he flew ; 

As ever ye saw a bubble rise, 

And shine with a thousand changing dyes, 

Till, lessening far, through ether driven. 

It mingles with the hues of heaven ; 

As, at the glimpse of morning pale. 

The lance-fly spreads his silken sail. 

And gleams with blendings soft and bright. 

Till lost in the shades of fading night : 

So rose from earth the lovely fay — 

So vanished, far in heaven away ! 

****** 
Up, fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower. 
The cricket has called the second hour ; 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streaking of the skies — 



Up ! thy charmed armor don. 

Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone. 

XXV. 

He put his acorn helmet on ; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down ; 

The corselet plate that guarded his breast 

Was once the wild bee's golden vest ; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes. 

Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen. 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the quivering lance which he brandished 

bright 
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. 
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed ; 

He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue ; 
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, 

And away like a glance of thought he flew. 
To skim the heavens, and follow far 
The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air. 

Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; 

The katydid forgot its lay, 

The prowling gnat fled fast away. 

The fell mosquito checked his drone 

And folded his wings till the fay was gone. 

And the wily beetle dropped his head. 

And fell on the ground as if he were dead ; 

They crouched them close in the darksome shade, 

They quaked all o'er with awe and fear. 
For they had felt the blue-bent blade. 

And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear ; 
Many a time, on a summer's night, 
When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, 
They had been roused from the haunted ground 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound ; 

They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, 
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string. 

When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, 

And the needle-shaft through air was borne, 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing. 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe, 

Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground : 
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof 

That canopies the world around ; 



590 



P0E3IS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Then glad they left their covert lair, 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 

XXVII. 

Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent, 

And at every gallop on the wind 

He flung a glittering spark behind ; 

He flies like a feather in the blast 

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. 

But the shapes of air have begun their work, 
And a drizzly mist is round him cast ; 

He cannot see through the mantle murk ; 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 

Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade. 
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain — 
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein. 

And flame-shot tongues around him played, 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity, 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 

XXVIII. 

His wings are wet around his breast. 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest, 
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare, 
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare ; 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew, 

He thrust before and he struck behind. 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through. 

And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind ; 
Howling the misty spectres flew. 

They rend the air with frightful cries ; 
For he has gained the welkin blue. 

And the land of clouds beneath him lies. 

XXIX. 

Up to the cope careering swift, 

In breathless motion fast, 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift. 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast. 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, 

The sphered moon is past, 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
Oh ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, 

To tread the starry plain of even ! 



To meet the thousand eyes of night. 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven I 
But the elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky- way ; 
Then he checked his courser's foot, 
And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. 

XXX. 

Sudden along the snowy tide 

That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall. 
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, 

Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; 
Around the fay they weave the dance, 

They skip before him on the plain. 
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, 

And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 
With warblings wild they lead him on 

To where, through clouds of amber seen, 
Studded with stars, resplendent shone 

The palace of the sylphid queen. 
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright, 
Were streamers of the northern light ; 
Its curtain's light and lovely flush 
Was of the morning's rosy blush ; 
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon, 
The white and feathery fleece of noon. 

XXXI. 

But, oh ! how fair the shape that lay 

Beneath a rainbow bending bright ; 
She seemed to the entranced fay 

The loveliest of the forms of light ; 
Her mantle was the purple rolled 

At twilight in the west afar ; 
'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold. 

And buttoned with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 

That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 
Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon. 

Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam, 
And the diamond gems which round it gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne'er have left their native heaven. 

XXXII. 

She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite. 
And they leaped with smiles ; for well I ween 



THE CULPRIT FAl. 



591 



Xever before in the bowers of light 

Had the form of an earthly fay been seen. 
Long she looked in his tiny face ; 

Long with his butterfly cloak she played ; 
She smoothed his wings of azure lace, 

And handled the tassel of his blade ; 
And as he told, in accents low. 
The story of his love and woe. 
She felt new pains in her bosom rise, 
And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 
And " 0, sweet spirit of earth," she cried, 

" Return no more to your woodland height, 
But ever here with me abide 

In the land of everlasting light I 
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie, 

Well hang upon the rainbow's rim ; 
And all the jewels of the sky 

Around thy brow shall brighth' beam ! 
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 

That rolls its whitening foam aboon. 
And ride upon the lightning's gleam. 

And dance upon the orbed moon ! 
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring, 

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt. 
And I will bid my sylphs to sing 

The song that makes the dew-mist melt ; 
Their harps are of the umber shade 

That hides the blush of waking day. 
And every gleamy string is made 

Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray ; 
And thou shalt pillow on ray breast. 

While heavenly breathings float around, 
And. with the sylphs of ether blest. 

Forget tlie joys of fairy ground." 

sxxin. 

She was lovely and fair to see, 

And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; 

But lovelier far, and still more fair, 

The earthly form imprinted there ; 

Xaught he saw in the heavens above 

Was half so dear as his mortal love, 

For he thought upon her looks so meek. 

And he thought of the light flush on her cheek 

Xever again might he bask and lie 

On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; 

But in his dreams her form to see. 

To clasp her in his rerery, 



To think upon his virgin bride. 

Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 



XXXIV. 

" Lady," he cried, " I have sworn to-night, 

On the word of a fairy-knight. 

To do my sentence-task aright ; 

My honor scarce is free from stain — 

I may not soil its snows again ; 

Betide me weal, betide me woe. 

Its mandate must be answered now." 

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, 

The tear was in her drooping eye ; 

But she led him to the palace gate. 

And called the sylphs who hovered there, 
And bade them fly and bring him straight. 

Of clouds condensed, a sable car. 
With charm and spell she blessed it there, 
From all the fiends of upper air ; 
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, 
And tied his steed behind the cloud ; 
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky, 
For by its wane and wavering light 
There was a star would fall to-night. 

XXXV. 

Borne afar on the wings of the blast, 
Northward away, he speeds him fast, 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies. 
Each flickering star behind him lies. 
And he has reached the northern plain. 
And backed his fire-fly steed again, 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The star is yet in the vault of heaven, 

But it rocks in the summer gale ; 
And now 'tis fitful and uneven. 

And now 'tis deadly pale : 
And now 'tis wrapped in sulphm*-smoke. 

And quenched is its rayless beam ; 
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 

It bursts in flash and flame. 



592 ' POEMS OF THE 


' niAGIXATIOX. 


As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 


The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, 


That the storm-spirit flings from high, 


The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, 


The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, 


The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn. 


As it fell from the sheeted sky. 


The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone. 


As swift as the wind in its train behind 


Joseph Kodmax Drake. 


The elfin gallops along : 




The fiends of the cloud are bellowing loud, 




But the sylphid charm is strong ; 




He gillops unhurt in the shower of fire. 


^\)Z fairies. 


While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze : 




He watches each flake till its sparks expire. 


Up the airy mountain, 


And rides in the light of its mys. 


Down the rushy glen. 


But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed. 


We dare n't go a hunting 


And caught a glimmering spark : 


For fear of little men ; 


Then wheeled around to the fairy ground. 


Wee folk, good folk. 


And sped through the midnight dark. 


Trooping all together ; 




Green jacket, red cap, 


****** 


And white owl's feather ! 


Ouphe and goblin I imp and sprite I 




Elf of eve I and starry fay I 


Down along the rocky shore 


Ye that love the moon's soft light, 


Some make their home — 


Hither — hither wend your way; 


They live on crispy pancakes 


Twine ye in a jocund ring, 


Of yellow tide-foam ; 


Sing and trip it merrily. 


Some in the reeds 


Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 


Of the black mountain-lake, 


Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 


With frogs for their watch-dogs, 




All night awake. 


Hail the wanderer again 




With dance and song, and lute and lyre ; 


High on the hill-top 


Pure his wing and strong his chain, 


The old king sits ; 


And doubly bright his fairy fire. 


He is now so old and gray 


Twine ye in an airy round. 


He "s nigh lost his wits. 


Brush the dew and print the lea ; 


With a bridge of white mist 


Skip and gambol, hop and bound. 


Columbkill he crosses, 


Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 


On his stately journeys 




From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 


The beetle guards our holy ground. 


Or going up with music 


He flies alxiut the haunted place. 


On cold, starry nights. 


And if mortal there be found, 


To sup with the queen 


He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 


Of the gay Xorthern Lights. 


The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, 




The owlet's eyes our lanterns be : 


They stole little Bridget 


Thus we sing, and dance, and play. 


For seven years long ; 


Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 


WTien she came down again 




Her friends were all gone. 


But. hark I from tower on tree-top high. 


They took her lightly back. 


The sentry-elf his call has made: 


Between the night and morrow ; 


A streak is in the eastern sky. 


They thought that she was fast asleep, 


Shapes of moonlight I flit and fade ! 


But she was dead with sorrow. 



THE FAIRIES' FARET^'ELL. 



They hare kept her ever since 

Deep within the lakes, 
On a l^ed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side. 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted the thorn-trees 

For pleasure here and there : 
Is any man so daring 

To dig one up in spite, 
He shall find the thornies set 

In his bed at night. 

L'p the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 
We dare n't go a hunting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk. 

Troopmg all together ; 
Green Jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 

WTT.T.TA'H AT.T.TX fi TTAM . 



(Tlic fairies' -farcrocU. 

Faeewell rewards and fairies I 

Good housewives now may say; 
For now foule sluts in dairies 

Doe fare as well as they : 
And though they sweepe their hearths no les 

Than mayds were wont to doe. 
Yet who of late for cleaneliness 

Finds sixe-pence in her shoe ? 

Lament, lament, old abbeys, 

The fairies' lost command I 
They did but change priests' babies. 

But some have changed your land : 
And all your children, stoln from thence, 

Are now growne Puritanes, 
Who live as changelings ever since, 

For love of your demaines. 

At morning and at evening both 

You merry were and glad : 
So little care of sleepe and sloth 

These prettie ladies had. 



40 



When Tom came home from labor, 

Or Ciss to milking rose, 
Then merrily went their tabour, 

And nimbly went their toes. 

Witness, those rings and roundelayes 

Of theirs, which yet remaine. 
Were footed in Queen Marie's dayes 

On many a grassy playne. 
But since of late Elizal^eth, 

And later James, came in, 
They never danced on any heath 

As when the time hath bin. 

By which wee note the fairies 

Were of the old profession ; 
Their songs were Ave-JIaries, 

Their dances were procession. 
But. now, alas I they all are dead. 

Or gone beyond the seas, 
Or farther for religion fled ; 

Or else they take their ease. 

A teU-tale in their company 

They never could endure ; 
And whoso kept not secretly 

Their mirth, was punished sure ; 
It was a just and Christian deed 

To pinch such blaeke and blue : 
Oh how the commonwelth doth need 

Such justices as you ! 

Xow they have left our quarters, 

A register they have. 
Who can preserve their charters — 

A man both wise and grave. 
An hundred of their meiiy pranks. 

By one that I could name, 
Are kept in store : con twenty thanks 

To William for the same. 

To William Chume of StaJSordshire 

Give laud and praises due. 
Who. every meale. can mend your cheare 

With tales hoxh. old and true ; 
To William all ^ye audience. 

And pray yee for his noddle ; 
For all the fairies' evidence 

Were lost if it were addle. 

Richard Coebztt. 



594 



P0E3IS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



®l)e (©reen (©nomc. 

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and 

dells :' 
Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! 

And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white 

as milk, 
My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of 

the silk ; 
My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my 

shoe, 
My eyes were like two harebells bathed m little 

drops of dew ; 
My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly 

blent 
With the leaves of autumn dropping all around 

me as I went ; 
And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind 

me peal and play, 
Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die 

away ; 
And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of 

sand, 
I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon 

his hand. 
Then he started up to see me, and he ran with cry 

and bound. 
And drew me from my palfrey white and set me 

on the ground. 
Oh crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was 

green to see, 
But he cried, " light-haired lassie, you are bound 

to marry me ! " 
He clasped me round the middle small, he kissed 

me on the cheek. 
He kissed rae once, he kissed me twice — I could 

not stir or speak : 
He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice — but when 

he kissed again, 
I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for 

men. 

Sing, sing I ring, ring ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales and 
dells ! 



Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath 

' bells ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! 

Oh faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids 

to pray, 
So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far 

away ; 
And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need 

we can, 
The ugly green, green gnome became a tall and 

comely man : 
His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes 

were black as sloes. 
His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his 

hose ; 
A pensive light from Faeryland still lingered on his 

cheek, 
His voice was like the running brook when he be- 
gan to speak : 
" Oh you have cast away the charm my step-dame 

put on me, 
Seven years I dwelt in Faeryland, and you have set 

me free. 
Oh I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk 

with thee. 
And by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded 

be ! " 

Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I 

behind, 
And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and 

yellow, in the wind ; 
And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was 

high and proud. 
As nearer, nearer, nearer, rang the kirk bells sweet 

and loud. 
And we saw the kirk before us, as we trotted down 

the fells. 
And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of 

the bells. 

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! 
Chime. rhyme! chime, rhyme! thorough dales and 

dolls ! 
Rhyme, ring I chime, sing ! pleasant Sabbath 

' bolls ! 
Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells I 

Robert Buchanan. 



ARIEL'S SONGS. 



595 



triers Songs. 
I. 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands ; 
Court'sied when you have, and kissed. 

(The wild waves whist ! ) 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
Hark, hark ! 

BoivgJi, wowgh. 
The watch-dogs bark — 
Bowgh, wowgh. 
Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

II. 

Full fathoms five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made : 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Ding-dong. 
Hark ! now I hear them — ding, dong, bell ! 

ni. 

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch when owls do cry ; 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 

WILLIA3I Shakespeare. 



Song. 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep, long, lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore, 
In a chapel on the shore. 



Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly. 
Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
Doleful masses chaunt for thee — 
Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the quiet moonlight sea ; 

The boatmen rest their oars and say, 
Miserere Domine ! 

SAsrtJEL Taylor Coleridge. 



®l)e Corelei. 

I Kxow not what it presages, 

This heart with sadness fraught : 

'Tis a tale of the olden ages. 
That will not from my thought. 

The air grows cool, and darkles ; 

The Rhine flows calmly on ; 
The mountain summit sparkles 

In the light of the setting sun. 

There sits, in soft reclining, 

A maiden wondrous fair. 
With golden raiment shining, 

And combing her golden hair. 

With a comb of gold she combs it ; 

And combing, low singeth she — 
A song of a strange, sweet sadness, 

A wonderful melody. 

The sailor shuddei-s, as o'er him 
The strain comes floating by; 

He sees not the cliffs before him — 
He only looks on high. 

Ah ! round him the dark waves, flinging 
Their arms, draw him slowly down — 

And this, with her wild, sweet singing. 
The Lorelei has done. 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Christopher Pearse Craxoh. 



596 POEMS OF THE 


' UIAGINATIOy. 




" Why hast thou so caressed me, 


iriie totttiT Cabij. 


Thou lovely water fay ? " 


Alas, that moon should ever beam 


" Oh, thou need'st not alarm thee, 


To show what man should never see ! 


That thus thy form I hold ; 


I saw a maiden on a stream, 


For I only seek to warm me, 


And fair was she ! 


And the night is black and cold." 


I staid awhile, to see her throw 


" The wind to the waves is calling, 


Her tresses back, that all beset 


The moonlight is fading away ; 


The fair horizon of her brow 


And tears down thy cheek are falling. 


With clouds of jet. 


Thou beautiful water fay ! " 


I staid a little while to view 


" The wind to the waves is calling. 


Her cheek, that wore, in place of red, 


And the moonlight grows dim on the rocks ; 


The bloom of water — tender blue, 


But no tears from mine eyes are falling, 


Daintily spread. 


'Tis the water which drips from my locks." 


I staid to watch, a little space, 


" The ocean is heaving and sobbing, 


Her parted lips, if she would sing ; 


The sea-mews scream in the spray ; 


The waters closed above her face 


And thy heart is wildly throbbing. 


With many a ring. 


Thou beautiful water fay ! " 


And still I staid a little more — 


" My heart is wildly swelling. 


Alas ! she never comes again ! 


And it beats in burning truth ; 


1 throw my flowers from the shore. 


For I love thee, past all telling. 


And watch in vain. . 


Thou beautiful mortal youth." 




Heinrich Heine. (German.) 


I know my life will fade away. 


Translation of Chaeles G. Lelaxd. 


I know that I must vainly pine ; 




For I am made of mortal clay. 




But she 's divine I 




Thomas Hood. 


Song. 




A LAKE and a fairy boat. 


^\)t tOiUcr -faij. 


To sail in the moonlight clear, 


And merrily we would float 


The night comes stealing o'er me, 


From the dragons that watch us here ! 


And clouds are on the sea ; 




W''hile the wavelets rustle before me 


Thy gown should be snow-white silk ; 


With a mystical melody. 


And strings of orient pearls, 




Like gossamers dipped in milk, 


A water-maid rose singing 


Should twine with thy raven curls ! 


Before me. fair and pale ; 




And snow-white breasts were springing. 


Red rubies should deck thy hands, 


Like fountains, 'neath her veil. 


And diamonds should be thy dower ; 




But fairies have broke their wands, 


She kissed me and she pressed me, 


And wishing has lost its power ! 


Till I wished her arms away : 


Thomas Hood. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



597 



Z^t Cabg of Slialott. 

PAKT I. 

Ox either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky, 
And through the field the roads run by 

To many-towered Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Eound an island there below — 

The island of Shalott 

"Willows whiten : aspens quiver ; 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river, 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers : 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veiled. 
Slide the heavy barges, trailed 
By slow horses : and. unbailed. 
The shallop flitteth. sUken-sailed. 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand \ 
Or at the casement seen her stand f 
Or is she known in all the land — 

The lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barlev. 
Hear a song that echoes eheerly 
From the river, winding clearly 

DoAVTi to towered Camelot ; 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers. " "Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART n. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gav. 
She has heard a whisper say 
A curse is on her if she star 



To look down to Camelot 
She knows not what the curse may be ; 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she — 

The lady of Shalott. 

And moving throuirh a mirror clear 
That hangs l3efore her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near, 

Winding down to Camelot ; 
There the river eddy whirls : 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market-girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad — 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-haii'ed page, in crimson clad. 

Goes by to towered Camelot : 
And sometimes through the mirror blue 
The knights come riding, two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true — 

The lady of Shalott. 

But iu her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights : 
For often, through the silent nights, 
A funerak with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot ; 
Or. when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovei*s lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows,*' said 

The lady of Shalott. 

PART ni. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves 
He rode between the barley-sheaves : 
The sun came dazzling through the leave; 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of lx)ld Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gommy LTidlo glittered free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 



598 



POFJIS OF THE IMAGIXATIOX. 



Hung in the golden galaxy. 
The bridle-bells rang meiTily. 

As he rode down to Camelot ; 
And. from his blazoned baldric slung, 
A mighty silver bugle hung : 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather ; 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
As often, through the purple night. 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ; 
On burnished hooves his war-hoi-se trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flowed 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal min'or : 
'• Tirra lirra." by the river, 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom ; 

She made tliree paces through the room ; 

She saw the water-lily bloom ; 

She saw the helmet and the plume ; 

She looked do^Nni to Camelot : 
Out flew the web. and floated wide : 
The mirror cracked from side to side ; 
•• The curse is come upon me I " cried 

The lady of Shalott. 

PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning — 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over towered Camelot : 
Down she came and found a boat, 
Beneath a willow left afloat : 
And round about the prow she wrote, 

The lady of Shalott. 



And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away — 

The lady of Shalott. 

Lying robed in snowy white. 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat -head wound along, 
The willow^- hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song — 

The lady of Shalott — 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly — 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darkened wholly, 

Turned to towered Camelot ; 
For ere she reached, upon the tide, 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing, in her song she died — 

The lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape, she floated by — 

A corse between the houses high — 

SUent. into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame ; 
And round the prow they read her name — 

The lady of Shalott. 

Who is this f and what is here ? 

And in the royal palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer ; 

And they crossed tliemselves for fear — 

All the knights at Camelot ; 
But Lancelot mused a little space : 
He said. ** She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her gi-ace — 

The lady of Shalott ! " 

Alfred Texxysox. 



CO Mrs. A MASK, 



oOf) 



Camns, a iHask. 

THE PERSONS. 
The attendant Sperit, afterwards in tlie habit of 

THTR5IS. 

CoMrs, ^vith his crew. 
The Ladt. 
Pirst Brother. 
Second Brother, 
SABRrs'A. the Xymph. 

THE FIRST SCEN"E DISCOVERS A WILD WOOD. 

The attendant Spirit descends or enters. 

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, 
Which men call earth, and, with low-thoughted 

care 
Confined, and pestered in this pinfold here. 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown that viitue gives. 
After this mortal change to her true servants, 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of eternity. 
To such my errand is : and, but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds 
"With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mould. 
But to my task : Xeptune, besides the sway 
Of every salt flood and each ebbmg stream, 
Took in, by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove, 
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles, 
That like to rich and various gems inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep ; 
WTiich he, to grace his tributarv gods. 
By course commits to several government, 
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire 

crowns, 
And wield their little tridents. But this isle, 
The greatest and the best of all the main, 
He quarters to his blue-haired deities : 
And all this tract, that fronts the falling sun, 
A noble peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide 
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms ; 
Where his fan- offspring, nursed in princely lore, 



Are coming to attend their father's state, 

And new-intrusted sceptre ; but their way 

Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear 

wood, 
The nodding horror of whose shady brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger. 
And here their tender age might suffer peril. 
But that, by quick command from sovereign Jove, 
I was despatched for their defence and guard ; 
And listen why — for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song. 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape 
Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine, 
After the Tuscan mariners transformed, 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed. 
On Circe's island fell. Who knows not Cii'ce, 
The daughter of the sun, whose charmed cup 
Whoever tasted lost his upright shape. 
And downward fell into a grovelling swine ? 
This nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks, 
With ivy-berries wreathed, and his blithe youth, 
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 
Much like his father, but his mother more ; 
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus 

named ; 
Who ripe, and frolic of his full-grown age, 
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields, 
At last betakes him to this ominous wood, 
And, iu thick shelter of black shades imbowered. 
Excels his mother at her mighty art, 
Offering to everv wearv traveller 
His orient liquor in a cryst al glass. 
To quench the drouth of Phcebus ; which as they 

taste, 
(For most do taste through fond intemp'rate thirst) 
Soon as the potion works, their human counte- 
nance. 
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 
Into some brutish form, of wolf, or bear. 
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat — 
All other parts remaining as they were ; 
And they, so perfect is their misery, 
Xot once perceive their foul disfigurement, 
But boast themselves more comely than before ; 
And all their friends and native home forget, 
To roU with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
Therefore, when any favored of high Jove 
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade. 



600 



POEMS OF THE UIAGINATION, 



Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 

I shoot from heav'n, to give him safe convoy — 

As now I do. But first 1 must put off 

Those my sky robes, spun out of Iris' woof, 

And take the weeds and likeness of a swain 

That to the service of this house belongs. 

Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song, 

Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar. 

And hush the waving woods ; nor of less faith, 

And, in this office of his mountain watch. 

Likeliest and nearest to the present aid. 

Of this occasion. But I hear the tread 

Of hateful steps ; I must be viewless now. 

CoMUS enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, 
his glass in the other ; with him a rout of mon- 
sters, headed like swidry sorts of wild beasts — 
hut otherwise like meti and women, their apparel 
glistening ; they come in making a riotous and 
unridy noise, with torches in their hands. 

CoMUs. The star that bids the shepherd fold. 
Now the top of heaven doth hold ; 
And the gilded car of day 
His glowing axle doth allay 
In the steep Atlantic stream ; 
And the slope sun his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky pole. 
Pacing toward the other goal 
Of his chamber in the east. 
Meanwhile welcome Joy and Feast, 
Midnight Sliout and Revelry, 
Tipsy Dance and Jollity. 
Braid your locks with rosy twine, 
Dropping odors, dropping wine, 
lligor now is gone to bed, 
And Advice with scrupulous head; 
Strict Age, and sour Severity, 
With their grave saws in slumber lie. 
We that are of purer fire 
Imitate the starry quire, 
Wlio in their nightly watchful spheres 
Lead in swift rounds the months and years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove. 
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
By (liini)led brook, and fountain brim. 
The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim, 



Their merry wakes and pastimes keep ; 

What hath night to do with sleep ? 

Night hath better sweets to prove ; 

Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 

Come ! let us our rites begin — 

'Tis only daylight that makes us sin, 

Which these dun shades will ne'er report. 

Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, 

Dark-veiled Cotytto ! t' whom the secret flame 

Of midnight torches burns ; mysterious dame, 

That ne'er art called but when the dragon womb 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest. gloom, 

And makes one blot of all the air ; 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair. 

Wherein thou ridest with Hecate, and befriend 

Us, thy vowed priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out. 

Ere the babbling eastern scout, 

The nice morn, on the Indian steep 

From her cabined loophole peep, 

And to the tell-tale sun descry 

Our concealed solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastic round ! 

THE MEASURE. 

Break off, break off ! I feel the different pace 

Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 

Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees ; 

Our number may affright some virgin sure, 

(For so I can distinguish by mine art), 

Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms. 

And to my wily trains ; I shall ere long 

Be well stocked, with as fair a herd as grazed 

About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 

My dazzling spells into the spungy air, 

Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion. 

And give it false presentments ; lest the place 

And my quaint habits breed astonishment. 

And put the damsel to suspicious flight — 

Which must not be, for that 's against my course. 

I, under fair pretence of friendly ends. 

And well-placed words of glozing courtesy, 

Baited with reasons not un plausible. 

Wind me into the easy-hearted man. 

And hug him into snares. When once her eye 

Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 

I shall appear some harmless villager. 

Whom thrift keeps up, about his country gear. 



COMUS, A MASK 



601 



But here she comes : I fairly step aside, 
And hearken, if I may, her business here. 

THE LADY ENTERS. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear be true — 

My best guide now ; methought it was the sound 

Of riot and ill-managed merriment. 

Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe 

Stirs up among the loose, unlettered hinds, 

When for their teeming flocks, and granges full. 

In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 

And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath 

To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence 

Of such late wassailers ; yet oh ! where else 

Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 

In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 

My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 

With this long way, resolving here to lodge 

Under the spreading favor of these pines, 

Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-side. 

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 

As the kind hospitable woods provide. 

They left me, then, when the gray-hooded even. 

Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 

Bat where they are, and why they came not back. 

Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 'tis likeliest 

They had engaged their wandering steps too far ; 

And envious darkness, ere they could return, 

Had stole them from me. Else, thievish night. 

Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, 

in thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, 

That nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps 

With everlasting oil, to give due light 

To the misled and lonely traveller 1 

This is the place, as well as I may guess. 

Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth 

Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear ; 

Yet nought but single darkness do I find. 

What might this be 1 A thousand fantasies 

Begin to throng into my memory, 

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire. 

And airy tongues that syllable men's names 

On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 

These thoughts may startle well, but not astound 

The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 

By a strong-siding champion, conscience. 

welcome pure-eyed faith, white-handed hope — 

Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings — 



And thou, unblemished form of chastity ! 

I see ye visibly, and now believe 

That he, the supreme good, t' whom all things ill 

Are but as slavish officers of vengeance. 

Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 

To keep my life and honor unassailed. 

Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night f 

I did not err, there does a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the night, 

And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 

I cannot halloo to my brothers ; but 

Such noise as I can make, to be heard farthest, 

I'll venture, for my new-enlivened spirits 

Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far off. 

SONG. 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen 

Within thy airy shell. 
By slow Meander's m argent green, 
And in the violet-embroidered vale 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song raourneth well — 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
Oh, if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave. 
Tell me but where. 
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmo- 
nies. 

U7iter CoMUS. 

Com. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast. 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night — 
At every fall smoothing the raven down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I oft have heard 
My mother Circe with the sirens three. 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs. 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul, 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 



602 



P0E3IS OF THE UlAGlXATIOy. 



And fell Charybclis murmured soft applause, 

Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 

And in sweet madness robbed it of itself. 

But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 

Such sober certainty of waking bliss. 

I never heard till now. I'll speak to her, 

And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder ! 

Whom, certain, these rough shades did never breed, 

Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 

Dwellest here with Pan or Silvan, by blest song 

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood ! 

Lad. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That is addressed to unattending ears ; 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company, 
Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 

Com. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you 
thus ? 

Lad. Dim darkness, and this leafy labyrinth. 

Com. Could that divide you from near ushering 
guides ? 

Lad. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy ? or why ? 

Lad. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly 
spring. 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, 
lady? 

Lad. They were but twain, and purposed quick 
return. 

Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 

Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 

Com. Imports their loss, beside the present need? 

Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of manly prime, or youthful 
bloom ? 

Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 

Com. Two such I saw, what time the labored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
And the swinked hedger at his supper sat ; 
I saw them, under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of yon snuiU hill. 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their port was more than human, as they stood ; 
I took it for a fairy vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element. 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was awe-struck ; 



And as I passed, I worshipped. If those you seek, 
It were a journey like the path to heaven 
To help you find them. 

Lad. Gentle villager, 
What readiest way would bring me to that place ? 

Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lad. To find that out, good shepherd, I suppose. 
In such a scant allowance of star-light, 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art. 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle or bushy dell, of this wild wood, 
And every bosky bourn from side to side — 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendants be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched pallet rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct you, lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till further quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word. 
And trust thy honest-offered courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls 
And courts of princes, where it first was named, 
And yet is most pretended ; in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. 
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportioned strength. Shepherd, lead on ! 

Ente7' The Two Brothers. 

1 Br. L'^nmuifle, ye faint stars ! and thou, fair 
moon, 

That wont'st to love the traveller's benison, 

Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 

And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here 

In double night of darkness and of shades ; 

Or if your influence be quite dammed up 

With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, 

Though a rush candle from the wicker-hole 

Of some clay habitation, visit us 

With thy long-levelled rule of streaming light ; 

And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, 

Or Tyrian cynosure. 

2 Br. Or if our eyes 

Be barred that happiness, might we but hear 
The folded flocks penned in their wattled cotes, 



COMUS, A MASK. 



603 



Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, 
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock 
Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 
'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering 
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. 
But oh that hapless virgin, our lost sister ! 
Where may she wander now, whither betake her 
From the chill dew, among rude burs and thistles? 
Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now ; 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm 
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears ; 
What if in wild amazement and affright, 
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat f 

1 Br. Peace, brother ! be not over-exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 

For grant they be so — while they rest unknown, 

What need a man forestall his date of grief. 

And run to meet what he would most avoid? 

Or if they be but false alarms of fear, 

How bitter is such self-delusion ! 

I do not think my sister so to seek, 

Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, 

And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever, 

As that the single want of light and noise 

(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 

Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts, 

And put them into misbecoming plight. 

Virtue could see to do what virtue would 

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 

Were in the flat sea sunk. And wisdom's self 

Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 

Where, with her best nurse, contemplation, 

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, 

That in the various bustle of resort 

Were ail-too ruffled, and sometimes impaired. 

He that has light within his own clear breast 

May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day ; 

But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts, 

Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; 

Himself is his own dungeon. 

2 Br. 'Tis most true, 

That musing meditation most affects 

The pensive secrecy of desert cell. 

Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, 

And sits as safe as in a senate-house ; 

For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 

His few books, or his beads, or maple dish, 

Or do his gray hairs any violence ? 



But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree 
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard 
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye. 
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit, 
From the rash hand of bold incontinence. 
You may as well spread oat the unsunned heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger will wink on opportunity. 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
L^ninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 
Of night, or loneliness, it recks me not ; 
I fear the dread events that dog them both, 
Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person 
Of our unowned sister. 

1 Br. I do not, brother. 

Infer as if I thought my sister's state 
Secure without all doubt, or controversy ; 
Yet where an equal poise of hope and fear 
Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 
That I incline to hope, rather than fear, 
And gladly banish squint suspicion. 
My sister is not so defenceless left 
As you imagine ; she has hidden strength, 
Which you remember not. 

2 Br. What hidden strength. 

Unless the strength of heaven, if you mean that ? 

1 Br. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength, 
Which, if heaven gave it, may be termed her own ; 
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity : 
She that has that is clad in complete steel. 
And like a quivered nymph with arrows keen 
May trace huge forests, and un harbored heaths. 
Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds, 
Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, 
Xo savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity ; 
Y^ea there, where very desolation dwells 
By grots, and caverns shagged with horrid shades. 
She may pass on with unblenched majesty, 
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks by night. 
In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen. 
Blue, meagre hag, or stubborn, unlaid ghost, 
That breaks his magic chains at curfew-time, 
No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, 
Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 



604 



POEJIS OF THE niAGIXATIOy. 



To testify the arms of Chastity ? 

Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, 

Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste, 

Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 

And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 

The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 

Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' the 

woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin, 
"Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone, 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity. 
And noble grace that dashed brute violence 
With sudden adoration, and blank awe i 
So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity. 
That when a soul is found sincerely so 
A thousand liveried angels lackey her. 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 
And in clear dream, and solemn vision. 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begins to cast a beam on th' outward shape, 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
Till all be made immortal ; but when lust. 
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, 
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 
Lets in defilement to the inward parts. 
The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
Imbodies and imbrutes, till she quite lose 
The divine property of her first being. 
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp. 
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sepulchres. 
Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave, 
As loath to leave the body that it loved, 
And linked itself by carnal sensuality 
To a degenerate and degraded state. 

3 Br. How charming is divine philosophy! 
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets. 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 

1 Br. List ! list ! I hear 

Some far-off halloo break the silent air. 

2 Br. Metliought so, too ; what should it be ? 
1 Br. For certain 

Either some one like us, night-foundered here. 
Or else some neighbor woodman : or. at worst, 
Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 



2 Be. Heaven keep my sister. Again, again, and 
near ; 
Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 

1 Br. I'll halloo ; 

If he be friendly, he comes well ; if not. 
Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us. 

The attendant Spirit, habited like a Shepherd. 

That halloo I should know, what are you ? speak ; 
Come not too near, you fall on iron stakes else. 
Spi. What voice is that ? my young lord ? speak 
again. 

2 Br. brother, 'tis my father's shepherd, sure. 
1 Br. Thyrsis? whose artful strains have oft 

delayed 
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, 
And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale. 
How cam'st thou here, good swain ? hath any ram 
Slipt from the fold, or young kid lost his dam, 
Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook ? 
How could'st thou find this dark sequestered nook ? 

Spi. my loved master's heir, and his next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial toy 
As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
Of pilfering wolf ; not all the fleecy wealth 
That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought 
To this my errand, and the care it brought. 
But oh, my virgin lady, where is she? 
How chance she is not in your company ? 

1 Br. To teU thee sadly, shepherd, without 
blame. 
Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 

Spi. Aye me unhappy I then my fears are true. 

1 Br. What fears, good Thyrsis ? Prithee brief- 
ly shew. 

Spi. I'll tell ye ; 'tis not vain or fabulous 
(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) 
What the sage poets, taught by th" heavenly muse. 
Storied of old in high immortal verse. 
Of dire chimeras and enchanted isles, 
And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell ; 
For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 

Within the navel of this hideous wood. 
Immured in cypress shades a sorcerer dwells. 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries; 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup. 
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison 



COMUS, A MASK. 



605 



The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, 
And the inglorious likeness of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage 
Charactered in the face ; this have I learnt 
Tending my flocks hard by i' th' hilly crofts, 
That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night 
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 
Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey. 
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 
In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 
Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells, 
To inveigle and invite th' unwary sense 
Of them that pass unweeting by the way. 
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 
Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb 
Of knot-grass dew-besprint, and were in fold, 
I sat me down to watch upon a bank 
With ivy canopied, and interwove 
With flaunting honeysuckle, and began, 
Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy. 
To meditate my rural minstrelsy. 
Till fancy had her fill ; but ere a close. 
The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, 
And filled the air with barbarous dissonance ; 
At which I ceased, and listened them awhile. 
Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 
Gave respite to the drowsy flighted steeds 
That draw the litter of close-curtained sleep ; 
At last a soft and solemn breathing sound 
Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes, 
And stole upon the air, that even silence 
Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 
Deny her nature, and be never more. 
Still to be so displaced. I was all ear. 
And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death ; but oh, ere long. 
Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
Of my most honored lady, your dear sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear ; 
And poor hapless nightingale, thought I, 
How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare ! 
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste, 
Through paths and turnings often trod by day. 
Till guided by mine ear I found the place, 
Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise, 
(For so by certain signs I knew) had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey, 
Who gently asked if he had seen such two, 



Supposing him some neighbor villager. 
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 
Ye were the two she meant ; with that I sprung 
Into swift flight, till 1 had found you here — 
But further know I not. 

2 Br. O night and shades. 
How are ye joined with hell in triple knot, 
Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin. 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother? 

1 Br. Yes, and keep it still. 
Lean on it safely ; not a period 
Shall be unsaid for me ; against the threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call chance, this I hold firm, 
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt. 
Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled ; 
Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm, 
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory ; 
But evil on itself shall back recoil, 
And mix no more with goodness, when at last, 
Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 
It shall be in eternal, restless change 
Self-fed, and self-consumed ; if this fail. 
The pillared firmament is rottenness, 
And earth's base built on stubble. But come, let 's 

on. 
Against th' opposing will and arm of Heaven 
May never this just sword be lifted up ; 
But for that damned magician, let him be girt 
With all the grisly legions that troop 
Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 
Harpies and hydras, or all the monstrous forms 
'Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out. 
And force him to restore his purchase back. 
Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, 
Cursed as his life. 

Spi. Alas ! good venturous youth, 
I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise ; 
But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 
Far other arms and other weapons must 
Be those that quell the might of hellish charms ; 
He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints. 
And crumble all thy sinews. 

1 Br. Why, prithee, shepherd. 
How durst thou then thyself approach so near 
As to make this relation? 

Spi. Care, and utmost shifts 
How to secure the lady from surprisal, 



606 



POEMS OF THE UIAGIXATION. 



Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad, 

Of small regard to see to, yet well skilled 

In every virtuous plant and healing herb 

That spreads her verdant leaf to th' morning ray : 

He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing, 

Which when I did, he on the tender grass 

Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasy, 

And in requital ope his leathern scrip, 

And shew me simples of a thousand names, 

Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 

Among the rest a small unsightly root. 

But of divine effect, he culled me out ; 

The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, 

But in another country, as he said, 

Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil — 

Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull swain . 

Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon ; 

And yet more medicinal is it than that moly 

That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave : 

He called it haimony, and gave it me. 

And bade me keep it as of sovereign use 

'Gainst all enchantments, mildew, blast, or damp. 

Or ghastly furies' apparition. 

I pursed it up ; but little reckoning made. 

Till now that this extremity compelled ; 

But now I find it true ; for by this means 

1 knew the foul enchanter, though disguised, 

Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells. 

And yet canie off ; if you have this about you 

(As I will give you when we go), you may 

Boldly assault the necromancer's hall ; 

Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 

And brandished blade, rush on him, break his glass, 

And shed the luscious liquor on the ground. 

But seize his wand ; though he and his cursed crew 

Fierce sign of battle make, and menace high. 

Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke. 

Yet will they soon retire if he but shrink. 

1 Br. Thyrsis, lead on apace, I'll follow thee. 
And some good angel bear a shield before us. 

The 8cene changes to a stately palace, set out with 
all manner of deliciousness ; soft music, tables 
spread icith all dainties. Com us appears with 
his rabble, and the Lady set in an enchanted 
chair, to whom he offers his glass, which she puts 
by, and goes about to rise. 

Com. Nay, lady, sit ! if I but wave this wand, 
Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster. 



And you a statue, or as Daphne was 
Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 

Lad. Fool, do not boast ! 
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
With all thy charms, although this corporal rind 
Thou hast immanacled, while Heaven sees good. 

Com. Why are you vexed, lady? why do yoi. 
frown ? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these gates 
Sorrow flies far ; see, here be all the pleasures 
That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts. 
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 
Brisk as the April buds in primrose-season. 
And first behold this cordial julep here. 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds. 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed ; 
Not that Nepenthes, which the wife of Thone 
In Egypt gave to Jove-t)orn Helena, 
Is of such power to stir up joy as this. 
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limbs which nature lent 
For gentle usage, and soft delicacy ? 
But you invert the covenants of her trust, 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower. 
With that which you received on other terms, 
Scorning the unexempt condition 
By which all mortal frailty must subsist, 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain, 
Tliat have been tired all day without repast, 
And timely rest have wanted ; but fair virgin. 
This will restore all soon. 

Lad. 'Twill not, false traitor — 
'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage, and the safe abode. 
Thou told'st me of ? What grim aspects are these, 
These ugly-headed monsters ? ]Mercy guard me I 
Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul de- 
ceiver ! 
Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence 
With visored falsehood and base forgery ? 
And would'st thou seek again to trap me here 
With liquorish baits, fit to insnare a brute ? 
Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous offer ; none 
But such as are good men can give good things, 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 






COMUS, A MASK. 



607 



Co3i. Oh foolishness of men ! that lend their ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur, 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow abstinence. 
Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth 
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, 
Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks, 
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable. 
But all to please, and sate the curious taste "? 
And set to work millions of spinning worms. 
That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired 

silk 
To deck her sons ; and that no corner might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
She hutcht th' all-worshipped ore, and precious 

gems 
To store her children with : if all the world 
Should in a fit of temp'rance feed on pulse, 
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but 

frieze, 
Th' all-giver would be unthanked, would be un- 

praised, 
Not half his riches known, and yet despised. 
And we should serve him as a grudging master, 
As a penurious niggard of his wealth. 
And live like nature's bastards, not her sons. 
Who would be quite surcharged with her own 

weight, 
And strangled with her waste fertility, 
Th' earth cumbered, and the winged air darked 

with plumes, 
The herds would over-multitude their lords. 
The sea o'erfraught would swell, and th' unsought 

diamonds 
Would so imblaze the forehead of the deep, 
And so bestud the stars, that they below 
Would grow inured to light, and come at last 
To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. 
List, lady, be not coy, and be not cozened 
With that same vaunted name, virginity. 
Beauty is nature's coin, must not be hoarded, 
But must be current, and the good thereof " 
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, 
Unsavory in th' enjoyment of itself ; 
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 
It withers on the stalk with languished head. 
Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shewn 
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities. 
Where most may wonder at the workmanship ; 



It is for homely features to keep home, 
They had their name thence ; coarse complexions 
And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 
The sampler, and to tease the housewife's wool. 
What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that. 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn % 
There was another meaning in these gifts ; 
Think what, and be advised, you are but young yet. 
Lad. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments, 
And virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most innocent nature 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance ; she, good eateress, 
Means her provision only to the good, 
That live according to her sober laws, 
And holy dictate of spare temperance ; 
If every just man, that now pines with want, 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which lewdly pampered luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess. 
Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed 
In unsuperfluous even proportion. 
And she no whit encumbered with her store ; 
And then the giver would be better thanked, 
His praise due paid ; for swinish gluttony 
Ne'er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, 
But with besotted base ingratitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go on? 
Or have I said enough % To him that dares 
Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 
Against the sun-clad power of chastity, 
Fain would I something say, yet to what end ? 
Thou hast not ear, nor soul, to apprehend 
The sublime notion and high mystery 
That must be uttered to unfold the sage 
And serious doctrine of virginity ; 
And thou art worthy that thou should'st not know 
More happiness than this thy present lot. 
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric. 
That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence, 
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced ; 
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits 
To such a flame of sacred vehemence 
That dumb things would be moved to sympathize, 



608 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And the brute earth would lend her nerves, and 

shake, 
Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 
Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 

Com. She fables not ; I feel that I do fear 
Her Avords set off by some superior power ; 
And though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering 

dew 
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove 
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus, 
To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble. 
And try her yet more strongly. Come, no 

more ; 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our foundation ; 
I must not suffer this : yet 'tis but the lees 
And settlings of a melancholy blood : 
But this will cure all straight; one sip of this 
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste — 

Tlie Brothers rush in icith sivords drawn, ivrest 
Jiis glass out of his hand, and break it against 
the ground; his rout make sign of resistance, 
but are all driven in; the attendant Spirit comes 
in. 

Spi. What ! have you let the false enchanter 
'scape ? 
Oh ye mistook ! ye should have snatched his wand 
And bound him fast : without his rod reversed. 
And backward mutters of dissevering power, 
We cannot free the lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fixed, and motionless. 
Yet stay ! be not disturbed ; now I bethink me, 
Some other means 1 have which may be used. 
Which once of Melibceus old I learnt. 
The soothest shepherd that e'er piped on plains. 

There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn 

stream ; 
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ; 
Whilome she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the sceptre from his father Brute. 
She, guileless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 
Commended lier fair innocence to the flood, 
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. 
The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, 
Held up their pearled wrists and took her in, 



Bearing her straight to aged Xereus' hall. 

Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, 

And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 

In nectared lavers strewed with asphodil, 

And through the porch and inlet of each sense 

Dropt in ambrosial oils till she revived, 

And underwent a quick immortal change, 

Made goddess of the river ; still she retains 

Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 

Visits the herds along the twilight meadows, 

Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs 

That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make. 

Which she with precious vialed liquors heals ; 

For which the shepherds, at their festivals, 

Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, 

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream, 

Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. 

And, as the old swain said, she can unlock 

The clasping charm, and thaw the mumming 

spell. 
If she be right invoked in warbled song ; 
For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift 
To aid a virgin, such as was herself. 
In hard besetting need ; this will I try. 
And add the power of some adjuring verse. 

SOXG. 

Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave. 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 

Listen, for dear honor's sake, 

Goddess of the silver lake. 
Listen and save ! 
Listen, and appear to us 
In name of great Oceanus ; 
By th' earth-shaking Xeptune's mace, 
And Tethy's grave majestic pace ; 
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook ; 
By scaly Triton's winding shell, 
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell ; 
By Leucothea's lovely hands. 
And her son that rules the strands ; 
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet. 
And the songs of sirens sweet ; 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 
And fair Ligea's golden comb. 



C03IUS, A 3IASK. 



699 



Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks ; 
By all the nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance — 
. Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
From thy coral-paven bed. 
And bridle in thy headlong wave. 
Till thou our summons answered have. 
Listen and save ! 

Sabrina rises^ attended hy water - nymphs, and 
sings. 

By the rushy-fringed bank, 
Where grows the willow and the osier dank 

My sliding chariot stays. 
Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen 

Of turkois blue, and emerald green, 
That in the channel strays ; 

Whilst from off the waters fleet 

Thus I si't my prinfcless feet 

O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 
That bends not as I tread ; 

Gentle swain, at thy request 
I am here. 

Spi. Goddess dear. 
We implore thy powerful hand 
To undo the charmed band 
Of true virgin here distressed. 
Through the force and through the wile 
Of unblest enchanter vile. 

Sab. Shepherd, 'tis my office best 
To help ensnared chastity : 
Brightest lady, look on me ! 
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 
Drops that from my fountain pure 
I have kept of precious cure. 
Thrice upon thy fingers' tip. 
Thrice upon thy rubied lip ; 
Next this marble venomed seat, 
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold : 
Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 
And I must haste ere morning hour 
To wait in Araphitrite's bower. 

Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her 
seat, 

Spi. Virgin, daugliter of Locrine, 
Sprung from old Anchises' line, 
41 



Maj^ thy brimmed waves for this 

Their full tribute never miss 
From a thousand petty rills. 
That tumble down the snowy hills ; 
Summer drought, or singed air, 
Never scorch thy tresses fair. 
Nor wet October's torrent flood 
Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 
May thy billows roll ashore 
The beryl, and the golden ore ; 
May thy lofty head be crowned 
With many a tower and terrace round, 
And here and there thy banks upon 
With groves of myrrh and ciimamon. 

Come, lady ! while heaven lends us grace, 
Let us fly this cursed place. 
Lest the sorcerer us entice 
With some other new device. 
Not a waste or needless sound. 
Till we come to holier ground ; 
I shall be your faithful guide 
Through this gloomy covert wide ; 
And not many furlongs thence 
Is your father's residence. 
Where this night are met in state 
Many a friend to gratulate 
His wished presence, and beside 
All the swains that near abide. 
With jigs and rural dance resort ; 
We shall catch them at their sport, 
And our sudden coming there 
Will double all their mirth and cheer ; 
Come, let us haste, the stars grow high. 
But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. 

The scene changes, presenting Ludlow town and 
the president's castle; then come in country 
dancers; after them the attendant Spirit, with 
the two Brothers and the Lady. 

SONG. 

Spi. Back, shepherds, back ! enough your play 
Till next sunshine holiday ; 
Here be without duck or nod 
Other trippings to be trod — 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
As Mercury did first devise 
With the mincing Dryades 
On the lawns, and on the leas. 



610 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



TJiis second song presents them to their father and 
mother. 

Noble lord, and lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight ; 
Here behold, so goodly grown, 
Three fair branches of your own ; 
Heaven hath timely tried their youth. 
Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
And sent them here through hard essays, 
With a crown of deathless praise, 
To triumph in victorious dance 
O'er sensual folly and intemperance. 

The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes. 

Spi. To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that lie 
Where day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky. 
There I suck the liquid air 
All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree. 
Along the crisped shades and bowers 
Revels the spruce and jocund spring ; 
The Graces, and the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
Thither all their bounties bring ; 
There eternal summer dwells. 
And west-winds with musky wing 
About the cedared alleys fUng 
Xard and cassia's balmy smells. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hue 
Than her purfled scarf can shew, 
And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List, mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of hyacinth and roses. 
Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' AssjTian queen ; 
But far above, in spangled sheen. 
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced. 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. 
After her wand'ring labors long, 
Till free consent the gods among 
Make her his eternal bride. 
And from her fair unspotted side 



Two blissful twins are to be born. 
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 

But now my task is smoothly done ; 
I can fly, or I can run. 
Quickly to the green earth's end. 
Where the bowed welkin low doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals that would follow me, 
Love virtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 
Or, if virtue feeble were. 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

John Milton. 



Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water. 
No cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy Ida 
The hot noon lay, and on the plain's enamel ; 
Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander. 
" Why should I haste ? " said young and rosy 

Hylas : 
"The seas were rough, and long the way from 

Colchis. 
Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason, 
Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther ; 
The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended 
On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen 
Doze on the benches. They may wait for water. 
Till I have bathed in mountain-bom Scamander." 

So said, unfilleting his purple chlarays, 
And putting down his urn, he stood a moment. 
Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms 
That spangled thick the lovely Dardan meadows. 
Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins. 
And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure ; 
Naked, save one liglit robe that from his shoulder 
Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing 
Of warm, white limbs, half -nerved with coming 

manhood, 
Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty. 
Now to the river's sandy marge advancing. 
He dropped the robe, and raised his head exulting 
In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing 
Held him against Apollo's glowing bosom. 



I 



HYLAS. 



611 



For sacred to Latona's son is beauty, 
Sacred is youth, the joy of youthful feeling. 
A joy indeed, a living joy, was Hylas, 
Whence Jove-begotten Heracles, the mighty, 
To men though terrible, to him was gentle. 
Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter 
When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders 
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemaean lion. 

The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his 

forehead. 
Fell soft about his temples ; manhood's blossom 
ISTot yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly 
Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lips parting. 
Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow. 
His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy. 
Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven ; 
Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders rounded 
To the white arms and whiter breast between them. 
Downward, the supple lines had less of softness : 
His bac-.k was like a god's ; his loins were moulded 
As if some pulse of power began to waken ; 
The springy fulness of his thighs, outswerving. 
Sloped to his knee, and, lightly dropping downward. 
Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of mo- 
tion. 

He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored 
In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it 
On the smooth sole that answered at the surface : 
Alas ! the shape dissolved in glimmering frag- 
ments. 
Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching 
Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters 
Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper. 
Till on his breast the river's cheek was pillowed, 
And deeper still, till every shoreward I'ipple 
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom 
His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crys- 
tal. 
There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion 
The lucid coolness folding close around him. 
The lily-cradled ripples murmured, " Hylas ! " 
He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine 
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water. 
And still the ripples murmured, " Hylas, Hylas ! " 
He thought : " The voices are but ear-born music. 
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling 
From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley ; 



So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus, 
Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo's fore- 
head. 
That I misdeem the fluting of this current 
For some lost nymph — " Again the murmur, 

" Hylas ! " 
And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around 

him 
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green dark- 
ness 
Glimmered on either side a shining bosom — 
Glimmered, uprising slow ; and ever closer 
Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoul- 
ders. 
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles, 
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh en wound 

him. 
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting. 
They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral, 
And once again there came a murmur : " Hylas ! 
Oh, come with us ! Oh, follow where we wander 
Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling — 
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander 
With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses, 
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing I 
Thou fair Greek boy, oh come with us ! Oh, follow 
Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot. 
But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet. 
Within the glimmering caves of ocean hollow ! 
We have no love ; alone of all the immortals. 
We have no love. Oh, love us, we who press thee 
With faithful arms, though cold, — whose lips ca- 
ress thee, — 
Who hold thy beauty prisoned ! Love us, Hylas ! " 
The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling 
Still as it faded, " Come with us ! Oh follow ! " 

The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure 
Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striv- 
ing, 
Down from the noonday brightness. " Leave me, 

naiads ! 
Leave me ! " he cried ; " the day to me is dearer 
Than all your caves deep-sphered in ocean's quiet. 
I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure : 
I would not change this flexile, warm existence, 
Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's 

dread thunder. 
To be a kins- beneath the dark-srreen waters." 



612 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



Still luoaned the humid lips, between their kisses, 
" We have no love. Oh, love us, we who love thee ! " 
And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas : 
" My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens 
I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish. 
Unlock your cold white arms — take from my shoul- 
der 
The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses. 
Let me return : the wind comes down from Ida, 
And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber. 
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow 
Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city. 
I am not yours — I cannot braid the lilies 
In your wet hair nor on your argent bosoms 
Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices. 
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being, — 
Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo ! 
For I am thine : thy fire, thy beam, thy music, 
Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture ; 
The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken, 
Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping. 
Oh, leave me, naiads ! loose your chill embraces. 
Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining." 
But still with unrelenting arms they bound him. 
And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices : 
"We have thee now — we hold thy beauty pris- 
oned ; 
Oh, come with us beneath the emerald waters ! 
We have no love ; we love thee, rosy Hylas. 
Oh, love us, who shall never more release thee — 
Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle 
Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean, 
Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces." 
And slowly, slowly sank the amorous naiads. 
The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the 

water, 
Pleading for help ; but heaven's immortal archer 
Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his fore- 
head ; 
And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated, 
So warm and silky that the stream upbore them, 
Closing reluctant, as he sank for ever. 

The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. 
Argo was tugj^ing at her chain ; for freshly 
Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows. 
The voice of Jason roused the dozinsr sailors, 
And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas. 
But mighty Heracles, the Jove-begotten, 



Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander, 
Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys 
Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before him : 
And when he called expectant, " Hylas ! Hylas ! '" 
The empty echoes made him answer, " Hylas ! " 

Batard Tatlor. 



God sends his teachers unto every age, 

To every clime, and every race of men, 

With revelations fitted to their growth 

And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of truth 

Into the selfish rule of one sole race. 

Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed 

The life of man, and given it to grasp 

The master-key of knowledge, reverence. 

Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right ; 

Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 

The slothful down of pampered ignorance, 

Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. 

There is an instinct in the human heart 
Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, 
To justify the reign of its belief 
And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, 
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
Which, like the hazel-twig, in faithful hands, 
Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in vain, 
But all things have within their hull of use 
A wisdom and a meaning, which may speak 
Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, 
To make its inspirations suit its creed, 
And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring 
Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
A sympathy with nature, which reveals, 
Xot less than her own works, pure gleams of light 
And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, 
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 

A youth named Rhcecus, wandering in the wood. 
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall ; 



RH(ECrS. 



613 



And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, 

He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, 

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. 

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind 

That murmui"ed "RhoecusI" — 'Twas as if the 

leaves, 
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it ; 
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again 
It murmured " Rhoecus I " softer than a breeze. 
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 
What seemed the substance of a happy dream 
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow 
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. 
It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair 
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
For any that were wont to mate with gods. 
All naked like a goddess stood she there, 
And like a goddess all too beautiful 
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. 
'• Rhcecus, I am the dryad of this tree — " 
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words, 
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew — 
" And with it I am doomed to live and die ; 
The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 
Xor have I other bliss than simple life ; 
Xow ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, 
And with a thankful heart it shall be thine." 

Then Rhcecus, with a flutter at the heart, 
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold. 
Answered : '• What is there that can satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 
Wliich must be evermore my spirit's goal." 
After a little pause she said again, 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 
" I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift ; 
An hour before the sunset meet me here." 
And straightway there was nothing he could see 
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak ; 
And not a sound came to his straining ears 
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, 
And, far away upon an emerald slope. 
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 

Xow, in those days of simpleness and faith. 
Men did not think that happy things were dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow bourne 
Of likelihood, but reverentlv deemed 



Xothing too wondrous or too beautiful 

To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 

So Rhcecus made no doubt that he was blest ; 

And all along unto the city's gate 

Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked ; 

The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont. 

And he could scarce believe he had not wings — 

Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins 

Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. 

Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart enough, 
But one that in the present dwelt too much. 
And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, 
Like the contented peasant of a vale, 
Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. 
So. haply meeting in the afternoon 
Some comrades who were playing at the dice. 
He joined them and forgot all else beside. 

The dice was rattling at the merriest. 
And Rhoecus. who had met but sorry luck, 
Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, 
Wlien through the room there hummed a yellow bee 
That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs, 
As if to light. And Rhcecus laughed and said. 
Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, 
" By Venus I does he take me for a rose ? " 
And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. 
But still the bee came back, and thrice again 
Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. 
Then through the window flew the wounded bee; 
And Rhcecus. tracking him with angry eyes, 
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 
Against the red disc of the setting sun. — 
And instantly the blood sank from his heart, 
As if its very walls had caved away. 
Without a word he turned, and rushing forth, 
Ran madly through the city and the gate, 
And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long 

shade. 
By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, 
Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. 

Quite spent and out of breath, he reached the 
tree: 
And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
The low voice murmur •• Rhoecus I " close at hand; 
Whereat he looked around him. but could see 



614 



P0E3IS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. 
Then sighed the voice : " Rhoecus ! nevermore 
Shalt thou behold me, or by day or night — 
Me, who would fain have blest thee with a love 
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
Filled up with nectar any mortal heart ; 
But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, 
And senfst him back to me with bruised wings. 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes — 
We ever ask an undivided love ; 
And he who scorns the least of nature's works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. 
Farewell ! for thou canst never see me more." 

Then Rhcecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud, 

And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet 

This once, and I shall never need it more ! " 

" Alas ! " the voice returned, '* 'tis thou art blind, 

Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive. 

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; 

Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 

With that again there murmured " Nevermore !" 

And Rhoecus after heard no other sound, 

Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 

Like the long surf upon a distant shore. 

Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. 

The night had gathered round him; o'er the plain 

The city sparkled with its thousand lights. 

And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 

Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky. 

With all its bright sublimity of stars, 

Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze ; 

Beauty was all around him, and delight ; 

But from that eve he was alone on earth. 

James Russell Lowell. 



Hnbla ^\\a\\. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree, 
Wiiere Alph, the sacred river, ran, 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round ; 
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree 



And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm, which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth- 
ing, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced. 
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ; 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran — 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man. 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean ; 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war. 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves. 
Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device — 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw ; 
It was an Abyssinian maid. 
And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of iNIount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 

That, with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air — 

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there. 
And all should cry. Beware ! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 

W^eave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



RUIE OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



615 



WvKiZ of tl)e Ancient iHariner. 



PART I. 

An ancient It is an ancient mariner, 
m'eeteth And he stoppeth one of three : 

lantelSdden " ^^ ^^^ ^^"^ ^'^^'^ \>^^r^ and glittering 
to a wed- eye, 

and" detain- Now wherefore stopp'st thou me % 
eth one. 



The wed- 

ding-^iiest 
is spell- 
bound by 
the eye of 
the old sea- 
faring man, 
and con- 
strained to 
hear his 
tale. 



The mariner 
tells how 
the ship 
sailedsouth- 
ward, with a 
good wind 
and fair 
weather, till 
it reached 
the line. 



The bridegroom's doors are opened 

wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set — 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand : 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard 

loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

•He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding-guest stood still ; 
He listens like a three-years' child : 
The mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone — 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed mariner : 

"The ship was cheered, the harbor 

cleared ; 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he ; 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea ; 

Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The wed- 
ding-guest 
heareth the 
bridal-mu- 
sic, but the 
mariner 
continueth 
his tale. 



The bride hath paced into the hall — 
Red as a rose is she ! 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed mariner : 



" And now the storm-blast came, and The ship 
, draA\ii by a 

tie storm 

Was tyrannous and strong ; SouthVole 

He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping 

prow — 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head — 
The ship drove fast; loud roared the 

blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy cliffs The land of 
-r. . , T T 1 T ice and of 

Did send a dismal sheen ; fearful 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — sounds. 
^ where no 

The ice was all between. living thing 

was to be 
seen. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around ; 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 

howled. 
Like noises in a swound ! 



At length did cross an albatross — 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 



Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
albatross, 
came 

through the 
snow-fog, 
and was re- 
ceived with 
great joj- 
and hospi- 
tality. 



616 



P0E3IS OF TEE IMAGINATION. 



And lo ! the 
albatross 
proveth a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
followeth 
the ship as 
it returned 
northward 
through fog 
and floating 
ice. 



And a good south wind sprang up behind ; 
The albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play. 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



The ancient •' God save thee, ancient manner ! 
mariner in- 
hospitably 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. cross- bow 

I shot the albatross." 



From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so ?" — " With my 



PART II. 

" The sun now rose upon the right — 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. ■ 

And the good south wind still blew be- 
hind ; 
But no sweet bird did follow. 

Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo. 



His ship- And I had done a hellish thing, 

mates cry a i -.u i i ^ i 

out against ^"^^ it would work em woe ; 

the ailcient ^ov all averred I had killed the bird 

manner, for 

killing the That made the breeze to blow : 

hick.''^ ^""^"^ Ah, wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 



But when 
the fog 
cleared off 
they justify 
the same, 
and thus 
make them- 
selves ac- 
complices in 
the crime. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious sun uprist ; 

Then all averred I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist : 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to 

slay, 
That bring the fog and mist. 



The fair The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
tinues : the The furrow followed free ; 

tftadi7c ^^^ ^^'^'*^ ^'^^ ^^'^^ *^^^^ ^^'^^ ^"^^^ 
Ocean, and Into that silent sea. 
sails north- 
ward, eveu till it reached the line. 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt The ship 
-, . hath been 

aown — suddenly 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; becalmed. 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea. 

All in a hot and copper sky 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck — nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



Water, water everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea ! 

About, about, in reel and rout, 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 



And the al- 
batross be- 
gins to be 
avenged. 



A spirit had 
followed 
them — one 
of the invis- 
ible inhabit- 
ants of this 
planet, nei- 
ther departed souls nor angels : concerning whom the learned 
Jew. Josephus. and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael 
Psellus, nuxy be consulted. They are very numerous, and 
there is no "climate or element without one or more. 



And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 



through 



And every tongue, 

drought, 
Was witliered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



utter 



Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross the albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



The ship- 
mates, in 
their sore 
distress, 
would fain 
throw the 
whole guilt 

on the ancient mariner ; in sign whereof they hang the dead 

sea-bird round his neck. 



RUIE OF THE ANCIENT MARINER, 



617 



PART III. 

There passed a weary time. Each 

throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye — 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye ! — 

The ancient When, looking westward, I beheld 

mariner be- , . ? , , 

holdeth a A something m the sky. 

sign in the 

element 

afar ofE. ^^ g^^gj- j^ seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 

It moved and moved, and took at 

last 
A certain shape, 1 wist — 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared ; 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 



At its near- ^jth throats unslaked, with black lips 
er approach ^ 

it seemeth baked, 

sh?p ;* ancfat ^^ could nor laugh nor wail ; 

a dear ran- Through utter drought all dumb we 
som he ^ ° 

freeth his stood ! 

thebMidTS I bit ^y ar^i' I sucked the blood, 
thirst. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



With throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked, 
Agape they heard me call ; 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 



A flash of 
joy. 



And horror See ! see ! I cried, she tacks no more ! 

follows. For rj-ii X. ^ T 

can it be a Hither to work us weal, 

ship that Without a breeze, without a tide, 
comes on- _ ' ' 

ward with- She Steadies with upright keel ! 
out wind or 
tide? 

The western wave was all a-flame ; 
The day was well-nigh done ; 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sun, 
When that strange shape drove sud- 
denly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 



And straight the sun was flecked with It seemeth 
1 him but the 

oars, skeleton of 

(Heaven's mother send us grace !) ^ ^^ip- 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! thought I — and my heart beat 

loud — 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the 

sun, "* 

Like restless gossameres % 



Are those her ribs through which the 

sun 
Did peer, as through a grate % 
And is that woman all her crew % 
Is that a death % and are there two % 
Is death that woman's mate % 

Her lips were red, her looks were 

free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
The nightmare, Lif e - in - Death, was 

she. 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came. 

And the twain were casting dice : 

' The game is done — I've won ! I've 

won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out. 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre bark. 

We listened, and looked sideways up ; 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ; 

The stars were dim, and thick the night ; 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 

white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 



And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting sun. 
The spectre- 
woman and 
her death- 
mate, and 
no other on 
board the 
skeleton 
ship. 

Like vessel, 
like crew! 



Death and 

Life-in- 
Death have 
diced for 
the ship's 
crew, and 
she (the lat- 
ter) winneth 
the ancieiit 
mariner. 

No twilight 
within the 
courts of 
the sun. 



At the ris-^ 
ing of the 
moon. 



618 



POEMS OF THE niAGIXATIOJSf. 



One after One after one, by the star-do^sred 
another. ' ^ ** 

moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 

pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

His ship- Four times fifty living men, 
down dead! (-'^"cl I heard nor sigh nor groan ! ) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
gins her They fled to bliss or woe ! 
andentmai^ -^"^^ every soul it passed me by, 
iner. Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



PART IV. 

The wed- " I fear thee, ancient mariner ! 

feaYefirthat I fear thy skinny hand ! 

a spirit IS /^j^(j |-]-^Q^ ^y.^ long, and lank, and brown, 

talking to »' J J 

hiin. As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



But the an- 
cient mari- 
ner assureth 
him of his 
bodily life, 
and pro- 
ceedeth to 
relate his 
horrible 
penance. 



1 fear thee, and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
" Fear not, fear not, thou wedding- 
guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



He despis- The many men, so beautiful ! 
eththecrea- . ^ ^ ,,i tt-i,. 

tures of the And they all dead did he ; 

calm. ^^j ^ thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on — and so did L 



And envied I looked upon the rottmg sea, 
that they ait & ' 

should live, And drew my eyes away; 

He'deir"^ I looked upon the rotting deck, 



And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



I closed my lids, and kept them 

close, 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea and the sea and 

the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their But the 

,. 1 curse liveth 

limDS — for him in 

Nor rot nor reek did they ; JJ;| eye^^f 

The look with which they looked on men. 

me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that 

curse — 
And yet I could not die. 



The moving moon went up the sky. 
And nowhere did abide ; 
Softly she was going up. 
And a star or two beside — 



In his lone- 
liness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth 
towards the 
journe3'ing 
mo)n, and 

the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and 
everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their ap- 
l)ointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural 
lioines, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are cer- 
tainly expected : and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 



Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water burnt alway, 
A still and awful red. 



By the light 
of the moon 
he behold- 



Beyond the shadow of the ship 

I watched the water-snakes ; 

They moved in tracks of shining white ; ^^^ God's 
•' ® ' creatures of 

And when they reared, the elfish the great 



light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire — 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

Thoy coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 



calm. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



619 



Their beau- Qh happy living things ! no tongue 
happiness. Their beauty might declare ; 

A spring of love gushed from 
heart, 
He blesseth And I blessed them unaware — 
heart. Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And 1 blessed them unaware. 



my 



The spell 
begins to 
break. 



The selfsame moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

PART V. 

Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
That slid into my soul. 



By grace of The silly buckets on the deck, 
the holy rr^, , , •, . -, 

Mother, the 1 hat had so long remained, 

fnerlfiS''"' ^ dreamt that they were filled 

freshed dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 



with 



He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth 
strange 
sights and 
commotions 
in the sky 
and the ele- 
ment. 



My lips were wet, my throat was 

cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

1 moved, and could not feel my 

limbs ; 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind — 
It did not come anear; 
But with its sound it shook the sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ; 
And a hundred fire-fiags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ; 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



And the coming wind did roar more 

loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one 

black cloud — 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag — 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship, The bodies 

Yet now the ship moved on ! crew^areTn^ 

Beneath the lightning and the moon ^^^^h ^^^ 

The dead men gave a groan. moves on. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all 

uprose — 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved 

on ; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said naught to me." 



" I fear thee, ancient mariner ! " 

" Be calm, thou wedding-guest ! 

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again. 

But a troop of spirits blest ; 

For when it dawned they dropped their 

arms, 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 

mouths. 
And from their bodies passed. 



But not by 
the souls of 
the men, nor 
by demons 
of earth or 
middle air, 
but by a 
blessed 
troop of an- 
gelic spirits, 
sent down 
by the invo- 
ciition of the 
guardian 
saint. 



620 



POEMS OF THE UI AGINATION. 



The lone- 
some spirit 
from the 
South Pole 
carries on 
the ship as 
far as the 
line in obe- 
dience to the 
angelic 
troop ; but 
still requir- 
eth ven- 
geance. 



Around, around flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again — 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 
I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are — 
How they seemed to fill the sea and 

air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made 

on 
A pleasant noise till noon — 
A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel, nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune. 
And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short, uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length. 
With a short, uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound — 
It flung the blood into my head. 
And I fell down in a swound. 



How long in that same fit I lay 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned 
I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
Two voices in the air : 

' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' is this the man ? 
By him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless albatross ! 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do.' 

PART VI. 
FIRST VOICE. 

' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? ' 

SECOND VOICE. 

' still as a slave before his lord. 
The ocean hath no blast : 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 



The polar 
spirit's fel- 
low demons, 
the invisible 
inhabitants 
of the ele- 
ment, take 
part in his 
wrong; and 
two of them 
relate, one 
to the other, 
that pen- 
ance, long 
and heavy 
for the an- 
cient mari- 
ner, hath 
been ac- 
corded to 
the polar 
spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 



FIRST VOICE. 



drives on that ship 



'But why 
fast, ^ 
Without or wave or wind ? ' 



SECOND VOICE. 

' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 



The mariner 
gQ hath been 
cast into a 
trance ; for 
the angelic 
power caus- 
eth the ves- 
sel to drive 
northward 
faster than 
human life 
could en- 
dure. 



RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



621 



Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the mariner's trance is abated.' 



The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 
natural mo- . . , , ,-, 

tion is re- ^s m a gentle weather ; 

tarded; the 'rp^^g night, calm night — the moon 

manner ° ' ® 

awakes, and was high ; 

his penance 

begins 

anew. 



The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 

died. 
Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 



The curse is And now this spell was snapt ; once 
finally expi- 
ated, more 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And, having once turned round, walks 

on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful flend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made ; 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek. 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sailed softly too ; 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
Is this mine own countree '? 

We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with sobs did pray — 
Oh let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
That stands above the rock ; 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till, rising from the same. 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were ; 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand — 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand; 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 



And the an- 
cient mari- 
ner behold- 
eth his na- 
tive coun- 
try. 



The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies, 

And appear 
in their own 
forms of 
light. 



' \ 



622 



POEMS OF TEE IMAGINATION. 



The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast ; 
Dear Lord in heaven I it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice ; 

It is the hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood ; 

He'll shrieve my soul — he'll wash away 

The albatross's blood. 

PART TII. 

The hermit This hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump ; 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared — I heard them 

talk; 
' WTiy, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights, so many and 

fair, 
That signal made but now ? ' 



der 



Approach- ' Strange, by ray faith ! the hermit 
eth the ship • i 

with won- saicl — 

' And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks looked warped ! and see 

those sails, 

How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along. 

When the i\'}'-tod is hea%'y with 
snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf be- 
low, 

That eats the she-wolf's young.' 



' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 
The pilot made reply — 
• I am a-f eared ' — ' Push on, push on 1 ' 
Said the hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard : 

Lender the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread ; 
It reached the ship — it split the bay — 
The ship went down like lead. 



The ship 
suddenly 
sinketh. 



Stunned bv that loud and dreadful sound, The ancient 

mariner is 
Which sky and ocean smote, saved in the 

Like one that hath been seven days P^^^^"^ ^^^^• 

drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl where sank the ship 
The boat span round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars ; the pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long ; and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro : 

' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 

The devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 



The ancient 
me, shrieve me, holy mariner ear- 
nestly en- 
treateth the 
hermit to 
shrievehim; 

' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — and the pen- 
TTT1 . . . j^i A % ance of life 

What manner of man art thou ? ' falls onhim. 



' Oh shrieve 
man ! ' — 
The hermit crossed his brow : 



THE RAVEN. 



And ever 
and anon 
throughout 
his ful:ure 
life an ago- 
ny con- ^ 
straineth 
him to trav- 
el from land 
to land. 



And to 
teach, by 
his own ex- 
ample, love 
and rever- 
ence to all 
things that 
God made 
and loveth. 



Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrenched 
With a wofnl agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale — 
And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns ; 
And till my ghastly tale is told 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see 
I know the man that must hear me — 
,To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that 

door ! 
The wedding-guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are ; 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea — 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends — 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell ! farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 



The mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone. And now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn ; 
A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Tatlob Coleridge. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
weak and weary. 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgot- 
ten lore — 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
came a tapping. 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 
chamber door : 

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my 
chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember ! it was in the bleak 

December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 

upon the floor. 
Eagerly 1 wished the morrow ; vainly I had tried 

to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for 

the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore — 

Xameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 
purple curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before : 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I 
stood repeating, 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber door — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber door ; — 

This it is, and nothing more." 



624 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then 

no longer. 
" Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 

came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you," — here I 

opened wide the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 

wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared 

to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 

gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word. " Lenore ! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word " Lenore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within 

me burning, 
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than 

before : 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my 

window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 

explore ; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more ! " 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 

flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days 

of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 

stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my 

chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 



Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 

smiling. 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 

it wore : 
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 

said, " art sure no craven — 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from 

the nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's 

Plutonian shore ! " 

Quoth the raven, '• Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly — 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy 
bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 
chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber door. 

With such name as " Nevermore." 



But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 

spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he 

did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather 

then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 

have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only 
stock and store — 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmer- 
ciful disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs 
one burden bore — 

Till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden 
bore 

Of ' Never — Nevermore.' " 



THE RAVEN, 



625 



But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of 
bird, and bust, and door ; 

Then upon the relvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking, " Neyermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom s core; 

This, and more, I sat divining, with my head at 
ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er ; 

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight 
gloating o'er. 

She shall press — ah, never more ! 

Then, methought. the air grew denser, perfumed 

from an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on 

the tufted floor. 
" Wretch I " I cried. " thy God hath lent thee, by 

these angels he hath sent thee, 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 

lost Lenore I " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, 
if bird or devil ! 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore — 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted, 



On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I 

implore — 
Is there — is there balm in G-ilead ? tell me — tell 

me, I implore I " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

•' Prophet I " said I, "thing of evil I — prophet still, 
if bird or devil ! 

By that heaven that bends above us — by that God 
we both adore — 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the dis- 
tant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore — 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore." 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " 

I shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's 

Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy 

soul hath spoken I 
Leave my loneliness unbroken I — quit the bust 

above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy 

form from off my door ! " 

Quoth the raven, ••Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my cham- 
ber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 
that is dreaming, 

And the lamplight, o'er him streaming, throws his 
shadow on the floor ; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies float- 
ing on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



42 



i 

I 



PAET IX. 



POEMS OF SEXTIMEXT AND REFLECTION. • 



The fate of the man-child ; 

The meaning of man ; 
Known fruit of the unknoAvn ; 

Daedalian plan ; 
Out of sleeping a waking, 

Out of waking a sleep : 
Life death overtaking, 

Deep underneath deep. 

Ralph. Waldo Emerson. 



Behold a woman ! 

She looks out from her Quaker cap ; her face is clearer and more beautiful 
than the sky. 

She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the farm-house ; 
The sun just shines on her old white head. 

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen : 

Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the 
distaff and the wheel. 



The melodious character of the earth, 

The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and does not wish to go, 

The justified mother of men ! 

Walt Whitman. 



Ah I when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Through all the circle of the golden year ? 

Alfred Tennyson. 



i 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



QL\)c bOorlb is too Mnz\) mil) us. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 

Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 

The winds that will be howling at all hours, 

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flow- 
ers ; 
For this, for eyery thing, we are out of tune : 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

HaA'e glimpses that would make me less for- 
lorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

WlLLIAJI WOKDSWORTH. 



^11 €artl)l2 lott returns in pain. 

Of Lentren in the first morning, 
Early as did the day up-spring. 
Thus sang ane bird with voice up-plain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

man I have mind that thou maun pass ; 
Remember that thou are but ass [ashes], 
And sail in ass return again : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 



Have mind that eild aye follows youth ; 
Death follows life with gaping mouth, 
Devouring fruit and flouring grain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain-. 

Wealth, worldly gloir, and rich array, 
Are all but thorns laid in thy way. 
Covered with flowers laid in ane train : 
All earthly joT/ returns injjain. 

Come never yet May so fresh and green, 
But Januar come as wud and keen ; 
Was never sic drouth but anis come rain 
All earthly joy returns in pain, 

Evermair unto this warld's joy. 
As nearest heir succeedis noy. 
Therefore when joy may not remain, 
His very heir succedis pain. 

Here health returns in seikness ; 
And mirth returns in heaviness ; 
Toun in desert, forest in plain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

Freedom returns in wretchedness, 
And truth returns in doubleness. 
With fenyeit words to mak men fain : 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 

Virtue returnis into vice, 
And honor into avarice ; 
With covetice is conscience slain t 
All earthly joy returns in pain. 



630 



POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 



Sen earthly joy abidis never, 
Work for the joy that lasts forever : 
For other joy is all but vain : 
All earthly joy 7'eticrns in imin. 

WILLIA3I DUXBAK. 



(Titlionus. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 

The vapors weep their burden to the ground, 

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortality 

Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 

Here at the quiet limit of the world. 

A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever-silent spaces of the East. 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 

So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 

Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed 

To his great heart none other than a god I 

I asked thee, " Give me immortality." 

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, 

Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 

But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills. 

And beat me down and marred and wasted me. 

And though they could not end me. left me 

maimed 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was. in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any wav 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart : there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders 

pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renewed. 



Thv cheek begins to redden throuo^h the oioom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosened 

manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 

In silence, then before thine answer given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learned. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
" The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me I with what another heart 

In days far-off, and with what other eyes 

I used to watch — if I be he that watched — 

The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 

The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 

Changed with thy mystic change, and felt ■ my 

blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me. cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from these dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground : 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see ray grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



ULYSSES. 



631 



It little profits that, an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among- these barren crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not 

me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoyed 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Yext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
Myself not least, but honored of them all ; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 
Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
VYere all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard myseK, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
"Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In ofiices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 



Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought 

with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old. 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something, ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Xot unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Alfred Texxyson. 



^[)c £oUts-€atcrs. 



" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land ; 
'•This mounting wave shall roll us shoreward 

soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
FuU-faced above the valley stood the moon : 
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem. 

II. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke. 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some through wavering lights and shadows 

broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 



633 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flushed : and, dewed with showery 

drops, 
LTp-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven 

copse. 

III. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 

In the red west : through mountain-clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seemed the same ! 

And round about the keel, with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 

IV. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them, 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 

And deep asleep he seemed, yet all awake, 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 



They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon, upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Father-land. 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 

I. 

There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or niirlit-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 



Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- 
ful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And through the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in 
sleep. 

II. 

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness f 

All things have rest : why should we toil alone ? 

We only toil, who are the first of things. 

And make perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease our wanderings, 

Xor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

Xor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of 



things f 



III. 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow. 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweetened with the summer-light. 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days, 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



IV. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah ! why 

Should life all labor be ? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 



633 



Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All thinsrs are taken from us. and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave, 
In silence ripen, fall, and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful 
ease! 

V. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half dream ! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. 

Which will not leave the myi'rh-bush on the 

height : 
To hear each other's whispered speech ; 
Eating the Lotus, day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray : 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heaped over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of 

brass I 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives, 
And their warm tears ; but all hath suffered 

change : 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes, over-bold. 
Have eat oui' substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The gods are hard to reconcile : 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion w*orse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 
Long labor unto aged breath, 



Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars. 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot- 
stars. 

VII. 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing 

lowly). 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave through the thick-twined 

vine — 
To hear the emerald-colored water falling 
Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine I 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the 

pine. 

VIII. 

The Lotus blooms below the barren peak : 
The Lotus blows bv everv winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : 
Through eveiy hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the 

surge was seething free, 
Wliere the wallowing monster spouted his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal 

mind. 
In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like gods together, careless of man- 
kind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 

hurled 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 

lightly curled 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- 
ing world ; 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted 

lands. 
' Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roar- 
ing deeps and fiery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking 
ships, and praying hands. 



634 



P0E3IS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION. 



But they smile, they find a music centred in a 

doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 

wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are 

strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave 

the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring 

toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, "tis whis- 
pered — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys 

dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 

shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave 

and oar ; 
rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 

more. Alfred Tenntson. 



i5rcat are \\\z illritlis. 



Great are the myths — I too delight in them; 
Great are Adam and Eve — 1 too look back and 

accept them ; 
Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, 

women, sages, inventors, rulers, warriors, and 

priests. 

Great is Liberty! great is Equality! I am their 

follower ; 
Helmsmen of nations, choose your craft ! where you 

sail, I sail, 
I weather it out with you, or sink with you. 

Great is Youth, equally great is Old Age, great 
are the Day and Xight ; 

Great is Wealth, great is Poverty, great is Ex- 
pression, great is Silence. 

Youth, large, lusty, loving — Youth, full of grace, 

force, fascination ! 
Do you know that Old Age may come after you, 

with equal grace, force, fascination ? 



Day, full-blown and splendid — Day of the im- 
mense sun, action, ambition, laughter. 

The Xight follows close, with millions of suns, and 
sleep, and restoring darkness. 

Wealth, with the flush hand, fine clothes, hospital- 
ity ; 

But then the SouFs wealth, which is candor, knowl- 
edge, pride, enfolding love ; 

(Who goes for men and women showing Poverty 
richer than Wealth ?) 

Expression of speech ! in what is written or 
said, forget not that Silence is also expres- 
sive; 

That Anguish hot as the hottest, and Contempt 
as cold as the coldest, may be without words. 



II. 

Great is the Earth, and the way it became what it 

is: 
Do you imagine it has stopped at this ? the increase 

abandoned ? 
Understand, then, that it goes as far onward from 

this, as this is from the times when it lay in 

covering waters and gases, before man had 

appeared. 



Great is the quality of Truth in man ; 

The quality of truth in man supports itself through 

all changes. 
It is inevitably in the man ; he and it are in love, 

and never leave each other. 

The truth in man is no dictum, it is vital as eye- 
sight ; 

If there be any Soul, there is truth; if there be 
man or woman, there is truth; if there be 
physical or moral, there is truth ; 

If there be equilibrium or volition, there is truth ; 
if there be things at all upon the earth, there 
is truth. 

O truth of the earth ! I am determined to press 

my way toward you ; 
Sound your voice ! I scale mountains, or dive in 

the sea after you. 



BARCLAY OF URY. 



6B5 



III. 

Great is Language ; it is the mightiest of the sci- 
ences, 

It is the fulness, color, form, diversity of the earth, 
and of men and women, and of all qualities 
and processes ; 

It is greater than wealth, it is greater than build- 
ings, ships, religions, paintings, music. 

Great is the English speech — what speech is so 

great as the English ? 
Great is the English brood — what brood has so 

vast a destiny as the English ? 
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the 

earth with the new rule ; 
The new rule shaU rule as the Soul rules, and 

as the love, justice, equality in the Soul 

rule. 

Great is Law; great are the few old landmarks 
of the law. 

They are the same in all time, and shall not be dis- 
turbed. 

IV. 

Great is Justice ! 

Justice is not settled by legislators and laws ; it is 
in the Soul ; 

It cannot be varied by statutes, any more than 
love, pride, the attraction of gravity can ; 

It is immutable: it does not depend on majori- 
ties; majorities, or what not, come at last 
before the same passionless and exact tri- 
bunal. 

For justice are the grand natural lawyers, and per- 
fect judges ; it is in their souls ; 

It is well assorted; they have not studied for 
nothing ; the great includes the less ; 

They rule on the highest grounds — they oversee 
all eras, states, administrations. 

The perfect judge fears nothing; he could go 

front to front before God ; 
Before the perfect judge all shall stand back ; life 

and death shall stand back ; heaven and hell 

shall stand back. 



V. 

Great is Life, real and mystical, wherever and who- 
ever; 

Great is Death ; sure as life holds all parts to- 
gether, Death holds all parts together. 

Has Life much purport? — Ah, Death has the 

greatest purport. 

Waxt Whitman. 



JSarclag of ^^ro. 

Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 

Rode the laird of Ury : 
Close behind him, close beside, 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving girl, 

Prompt to please her master ; 
And the begging earlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate. 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet with calm and stately mien 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding ; 
And, to all he saw and heard. 
Answering not with bitter word, 

Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging. 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing. 

Loose, and free, and fro ward : 
Quoth the foremost : " Ride him down ! 
Push him ! prick him ! Through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward ! " 

But from out the thickening crowd 
Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle-tried, 

Scarred and sun-burned darklv ; 



636 P0E2IS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION, 


Who, with ready -weapon bare, 


" Happier I, with loss of all — 


Fronting to the troopers there, 


Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 


Cried aloud : " God save us ! 


With few friends to greet me — 


Call ye coward him who stood 


Than when reeve and squire were seen 


Ankle-deep in Lutzen's blood, 


Riding out from Aberdeen 


With the brave Gustavus ? " 


With bared heads to meet me ; 


" Xay, I do not need thy sword, 


" When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 


Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 


Blessed me as I passed her door ; 


" Put it up, I pray thee ; 


And the snooded daughter, 


Passive to his holy will, 


Through her casement glancing down, 


Trust I in my Master still. 


Smiled on him who bore renown 


Even though he slay me. 


From red fields of slaughter. 


" Pledges of thy love and faith, 


" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 


Proved on many a field of death, 


Hard the old friends' falling off. 


Xot by me are needed."' 


Hard to learn forgiving ; 


Marvelled much that henchman bold^ 


But the Lord his own rewards, 


That his laird, so stout of old. 


And his love with theirs accords, 


Now so meekly pleaded. 


Warm, and fresh, and living. 


" Woe *s the day," he sadly said, 


" Through this dark and stormy night 


With a slowly shaking head, 


Faith beholds a feeble light 


And a look of pity ; 


Up the blackness streaking ; 


" fry's honest lord reviled. 


Knowing God's own time is best, 


Mock of knave and sport of child. 


Li a patient hope I rest 


In his own good city ! 


For the full day-breaking ! " 


" Speak the word, and, master mine. 


So the laird of Cry said. 


As we charged on Tilly's line. 


Turning slow his horse's head 


And his Walloon lancers, 


Towards the Tolbooth prison. 


Smiting through their midst, we'll teach 


Where, through iron gates, he heard 


Civil look and decent speech 


Poor disciples of the Word 


To these boyish prancers ! " 


Preach of Christ arisen ! 


"Marvel not, mine ancient friend — 


Xot in vain, confessor old, 


Like beginning, like the end ! " 


L^nto us the tale is told 


Quoth the laird of Ury ; 


Of thy day of trial ! 


" Is the sinful servant more 


Every age on him who strays 


Than his gracious Lord who bore 


From its broad and beaten ways, 


Bonds and stripes in Jewry? 


Pours its seven-fold vial. 


" Give me joy that in His name 


Happy he whose inward ear 


I can bear, with patient frame, 


Angel comfortings can hear, 


All these vain ones offer; 


O'er the rabble's laughter ; 


While for them He suffered long, 


And. while hatred's fagots burn, 


Shall 1 answer wrong with wrong, 


Glimpses through the smoke discern 


Scoffing with the scoffer? 

.^—^ 


Of the good hereafter. 



HARMOSAN. 



637 



Knowing this — that never yet 
Share of truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow ; 
After hands shall sow the seed, 
After hands from hill and mead 

Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the future borrow — 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



OClje Cor53 of ®l)ule. 

The lords of Thule it did not please 

That Willegis their bishop was ; 

For he was a wagoner's son. 

And they drew, to do him scorn, 

Wheels of chalk upon the wall ; 

He found them in chamber, found them in 
hall. 

But the pious Willegis 

Could not be moved to bitterness ; 

Seeing the wheels upon the wall, 

He bade his servants a painter call ; 

And said, — " My friend, paint now for me, 

On every wall, that I may see. 

A wheel of white in a field of red ; 

Underneath in letters plain to be read — 
' Willegis, bishop now by name, 
Forget not whence you came ! ' " 

The lords of Thule were full of shame — 

They wiped away their words of blame ; 

For they saw that scorn and jeer 

Cannot wound the wise man's ear. 

And all the bishops that after him came 

Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame. 

Thus came to pious Willegis 

Glory out of bitterness. 

Anonymous. (German.) 
Anonymous Translation. 



^artnosan. 

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian 

throne was done, 
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning 

victory won. 

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to 
defy. 

Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bring- 
ing forth to die. 

Then exclaimed that noble captive : " Lo, I perish 
in my thirst ; 

Give me but one drink of water, and let then ar- 
rive the worst ! " 

In his hand he took the goblet : but a while the 

draught forbore. 
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to 

explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest — for, 

around him, angry foes 
With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely 

man enclose. 

" But what fearest thou ? " cried the caliph ; " is it, 
friend, a secret blow ? 

Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such treach- 
erous dealing know. 

" Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for thou 

shalt not die before 
Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this reprieve 

is thine — no more ! " 

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth 

with '"^ady hand, 
And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning 

sand. 

•' Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water 

of that cup 
I have drained ; then bid thy servants that spilled 

water gather up ! " 

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful pas- 
sions stirred — 

Then exclaimed : " For ever sacred must remain a 
monarch's word. 



638 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



" Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble 

Persian give : 
Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid thee 

drink and live ! " 

Richard Chenevix Trench. 



Balder. 

Balder, the white sun-god, has departed ! 

Beautiful as summer dawn was he ; 
Loved of gods and men — the royal-hearted 
Balder, the white sun-god, has departed ^ 

Has gone home where all the brave ones be. 

For the tears of the imperial mother, 

For a universe that weeps and prays, 
Rides Hermoder forth to seek his brother — 
Bides for love of that distressful mother, 

Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue ways. 

With the howling wind and raving torrent. 
Nine days rode he, deep and deeper down — 

Beached the vast death-kingdom, rough and hor- 
rent. 

Reached the lonely bridge that spans the torrent 
Of the moaning river by Hell-town. 

There he found the ancient portress standing — 

Vexer of the mind and of the heart : 
'■ Balder came this way," to his demanding, 
Cried aloud that ancient portress, standing — 
'* Balder came, but Balder did depart ; 

" Here he could not dwell. He is down yonder — 

Northward, further, in the death-realm he." 
Rode Hermoder on in silent wonder — 
Mane of Gold fled fast and rushed down yonder ! 
Brave and good must young Hermoder be. 

For he leaps sheer over Hela's portal. 

Drops into the huge abyss below. 
There he saw the beautiful immortal — 
Saw him, Balder, under Hela's portal — 

Saw him, and forgot his pain and woe. 

" my Balder ! have I, have I found thee -^ 

Balder, beautiful as summer mornf 
my sun-god ! hearts of heroes crowned thee 
For their king ; they lost, but now have found thee ; 

Gods and men shall not be left forlorn. 



" Balder ! brother ! the divine has vanished — 

The eternal splendors all have fled ; 
Truth and love and nobleness are banished ; 
The heroic and divine have vanished ; 

Nature has no god, and earth lies dead. 

"Come thou back, my Balder — king and broth- 
er ! 
Teach the hearts of men to love the gods ! 
Come thou back, and comfort our great moth- 
er — 
Come with truth and bravery. Balder, brother — 
Bring the godlike back to men's abodes ! " 

But the Nomas let him pray unheeded — 

Balder never was to come again. 
Vainly, vainly young Hermoder pleaded — 
Balder never was to come. Unheeded, 

Young Hermoder wept and prayed in vain. 

Oh, the trueness of this ancient story ! 

Even now it is, as it was then. 
Earth hath lost a portion of her glory ; 
And like Balder, in the ancient story, 

Never comes the beautiful again. 

Still the young Hermoder journeys bravely, 

Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue ways ; 
Still he calls his brother, pleading gravely — 
Still to the death-kingdom ventures bravely — 
Calmly to the eternal terror prays. 

But the fates relent not ; strong endeavor, 

Courage, noble feeling, are in vain ; 
For the beautiful has gone for ever. 
Vain are courage, genius, strong endeavor — 

Never comes the beautiful again. 

Do you think I counsel weak despairing ? 

No ! like young Hermoder I would ride ; 
With an humble, yet a gallant daring, 
I would leap unquailing, undespairing. 

Over the huge precipice's side. 

Dead and gone is the old world's ideal. 

The old arts and old religion fled ; 
But I gladly live amid the real, 
And I seek a worthier ideal. 

Courage, brothers, God is overhead ! 

Anonymous. 



SOUL AND BODY. 639 




He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 


Soul anb Sobg. 


Sows, and he shall not reap ; 


Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 


His life is a watch or a vision 
Between a sleep and a sleep. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 


Grrief, with a glass that ran ; 




Pleasure, with sin for leaven ; 




Summer, with flowers that fell ; 


•^bbress to the iHummti at Behonrs 


Remembrance, fallen from heaven ; 
And madness, risen from hell ; 


Qr^eljibition. 


Strengtii, without hands to smite ; 


And thou hast walked about (how strange a 


Love, that endures for a breath ; 


story ! ) 


Night, the shadow of light ; 


In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 


And life, the shadow of death. 


When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 




And time had not begun to overthrow 


And the high gods took in hand 


Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. 


Fire and the falling of tears, 


Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 


And a measure of sliding sand 




From under the feet of the years, 


Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 


And froth and drift of the sea. 


Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its 


And dust of the laboring earth, 


tune ; 


And bodies of things to be 


Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, 


In the houses of death and of birth. 


mummy ! 


And wrought with weeping and laughter, 


Revisiting the glimpses of the moon — 


And fashioned with loathing and love, 


Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 


With life before and after, 


But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and 


And death beneath and above, 


features. 


For a day and a night and a morrow, 




That his strength might endure for a span. 


Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 


With travail and heavy sorrow, 


To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 


The holy spirit of man. 


Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 




Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 


From the winds of the North and the South 


Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer'? 


They gathered as unto strife ; 


Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 


They breathed up in his mouth, 




They filled his body with life ; 


Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 


Eyesight and speech they wrought 


By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade ; 


For the veils of the soul therein ; 


Then say what secret melody was hidden 


A time for labor and thought, 


In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 


A time to serve and to sin ; 


Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles 


They gave him light in his ways, 


Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 


And love, and a space for delight, 




And beauty and length of days, 


Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, 


And night, and sleep in the night. 


Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 


His speech is a burning fire ; 


Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat ; 


With his lips he travaileth ; 


Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; 


In his heart is a blind desire. 


Or held, by Solomon's own invitation. 


In his eyes foreknowledge of death. 


A torch at the great temple's dedication. 



640 



POEMS OF SEXTIMEXT AXD REFLECTION. 



I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed. 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could'st develop — if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have 
seen — 
How the world looked when it was fresh and 
young. 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 
Or was it then so old that history's pages 
Contained no record of its early ages f 

Still silent ! incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; 
But pry thee tell us something of thyself — 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slum- 
bered — 
What hast thou seen — what strange adventures 
numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended 
We have, above ground, seen some strange muta- 
tions : 
The Roman empire has begun and ended — 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old na- 
tions ; 
And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
Wlien tlie great Persian conqueror, Camljyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering 
tread — 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 
The nature of thy private life unfold : 

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 
And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that 
face? 

What was thy name and station, age and race? 



Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead 1 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow 
bed, 
And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morn- 
ing, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its 



Why should this worthless tegument endure, 
If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 

Oh ! let us keep tlie soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue — that when both must sever, 

Although corruption may our frame consume. 

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 



(Dbc to an Jnbian (J3olb (Coin. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark, wandering streams. 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played, 

Revives no more in after-time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 



THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 



641 



Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
Griooms baleful as the tomb-fire drear : 

A gentle vision comes by night 
My lonely, widowed heart to cheer : 
Her eyes are dim with many a tear 

That once were guiding stais to mine; 
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 

I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart ; the grave, 

Bark and untimely, met my view — 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha ! com'st thou now, so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning-shock 

Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne ? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, — 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

John Letden. 



®l)e ifisljer's Cottage. 

We sat by the fisher's cottage. 
And looked at the stormy tide ; 

The evening mist came rising. 
And floating far and wide. 

One by one in the light-house 
The lamps shone out on high ; 

And far on the dim horizon 
A ship went sailing by. 

We spoke of storm and shipwreck — 
Of sailors, and how they live ; 

Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, 
And the sorrows and joys they give. 

We spoke of distant countries. 
In regions strange and fair ; 

And of the wondrous beings 
And curious customs there ; 



43 



Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 

Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 

And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
Who worship the lotus-flower ; 

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland — 
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small — 

Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking. 
And chatter and scream and bawl. 

And the maidens earnestly listened, 

Till at last we spoke no more ; 
The ship like a shadow had vanished. 

And darkness fell deep on the shore. 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Charles G. Leland. 



®l}e S^tDO (Dceans. 

Two seas, amid the night. 

In the moonshine roll and sparkle — 
Now spread in the silver light, 

Now sadden, and wail, and darkle. 

The one has a billowy motion. 
And from land to land it gleams ; 

The other is sleep's wide ocean. 

And its glimmering waves are dreams. 

The one, with murmur and roar. 
Bears fleets around coast and islet ; 

The other, without a shore, 
Ne'er knew the track of a pilot. 

John Sterling. 



b 



etses 



SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, 
DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF 
JUAN FERNANDEZ. 

I AM monarch of all I survey — 

My right there is none to dispute ; 
From the centre all round to the sea, ■ 

1 am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
Solitude ! where are the charms 

That sages have seen in thy face ? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 

Than reign in this horrible place. 



642 



P0E2IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



I am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech — 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestowed upon man ! 
Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would 1 taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth — 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheered with the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! What treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! — 
More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford ; 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard, 
Never sighed at the sound of a knell, 

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport. 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of the land I shall visit no more ! 
My friends — do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
Oh tell me 1 yet have a friend. 

Though a friend 1 am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of ray o^vn native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But. alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
The beast is laid down in his lair ; 

Even here is a season of rest, 
And I to my cabin repair. 



There 's mercy in every place, 

And mercy — encouraging thought! — 
Gives even affliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

WlLLIAil COWPEB. 



Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel writing in a book of gold : 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
'' What writest thou f " — The vision raised its head. 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered — "The names of those who love the 

Lord." 
" And is mine one?" said Abou : " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with a great Avakening light. 

And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed — 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



^\)Z Steamboat. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves. 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind. 

She rends the clinging sea, 
That flies before the roaring wind, 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowei'S 
With heaped and glistening bells, 

Falls round her fast in ringing showers, 
With every wave that swells ; 



J 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH, 



643 



And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 

And smoking torch on high. 
When winds are loud, and billows reel. 

She thunders, foaming, by ! 
When seas are silent and serene 

With even beam she glides, 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form. 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm ; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame. 

The reddening surges o'er, 
With flying scarf of spangled flame. 

The pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 

Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 

Her broad breast to the gale ; 
And many a foresail, scooped and strained. 

Shall break from yard and stay. 
Before this smoky wreath hath stained 

The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 

I see yon quivering mast — 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff. 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff, 

White as the sea-bird's wing ! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ! 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on — and when the morning light 

Streams o'er the shining bay. 
Oh, think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day I 

OLrvER Wendell Holmes. 



^l)c billage J31acksmitl). 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands : 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat — 

He earns whate'er he can ; 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow — 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children, coming home from school. 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach — 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing — 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close — 
Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a night's repose. 



644 



P0E3IS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought — 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 



@^l)e Song of tl)c i^orge. 

Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 

Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing — 

Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 

The mighty blows still multiply — 

Clang, clang ! 

Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 

What are your strong arms forging now ? 

Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now — 
The coulter of the kindly plough. 

Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil ! 

Clang, clang! — our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 

By many a streamlet's silver tide — 
Amidst the song of morning birds. 
Amidst the low of sauntering lierds — 
Amidst soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the green hill's side. 

When regal autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land — 

When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold — 

We bless, we bless the plough. 

Clang, clang I — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? 
Clink, clank ! — we forge the giant chain, 
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 

'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 

Which thunder on her sides. 



Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 

The storm-cloud on the hill ; 
Calmly he rests — though far away. 
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay — 

Reliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these links shall sleep. 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 
By Afric's pestilential shore ; 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; 
By many a palmy western isle. 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile ; 
By stormy Labrador. 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 
When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah ! — cling, clang ! — once more, what glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 

The iron tempest of your blows. 
The furnace's red breath 1 

Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured 

Around, and up in the dusky air. 
As our hammers forge the sword. 

The sword ! — a name of dread ; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound — 

While for his altar and his hearth. 

While for the land that gave him birth, 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound — 

How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight — 
Whether in some wild mountain-pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas : 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston, or a Bannockburn ; 
Or amidst crags and bursting rills. 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
Or as when sunk the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide — 



THE ANCHORSMITHS. 



645 



Still, still, whene'er the battle-word 
Is liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land — 

Then Heaven bless the sword ! 



Anonymous. 



^\\t ^ncl)orsmitl)s. 

Like Etna's dread volcano, see the ample forge 
Large heaps upon large heaps of jetty fuel gorge. 
While, salamander-like, the ponderous anchor lies 
Glutted with vivid fire, through all its pores that 

flies ; — 
The dingy anchorsmiths, to renovate their strength, 
Stretched out in death-like sleep, are snoring at 

their length, 
Waiting the master's signal when the tackle's 

force 
Shall, like split rocks, the anchor from the fire 

divorce ; 
While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang. 
In deafening concert shall their ponderous ham- 
mers clang. 
And into symmetry the mass incongruous beat, 
To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant 
British fleet. 

Now, as more vivid and intense each splinter 

flies. 
The temper of the fire the skilful master tries ; 
And, as the dingy hue assumes a brilliant red. 
The heated anchor feeds that fire on which it 

fed: 
The huge sledge-hammers round in order they 

arrange, 
And waking anchorsmiths await the looked-for 

change. 
Longing with all their force the ardent mass to 

smite, 
When issuing from the fire arrayed in dazzling 

white ; 
And, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang. 
To make in concert rude their ponderous hammers 

clang, 
So the misshapen lumps to symmetry they beat, 
To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant 

British fleet. 



The preparations thicken ; with forks the fire they 
goad; 

And now twelve anchorsmiths the heaving bellows 
load; 

While armed from every danger, and in grim 
array. 

Anxious as howling demons waiting for their 
prey: 

The forge the anchor yields from out its fiery 
maw. 

Which on the anvil prone, the cavern shouts hur- 
rah! 

And now the scorched beholders want the power to 
gaze, 

Faint with its heat, and dazzled with its powerful 
rays ; 

While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil 
bang. 

To forge Jove's thunderbolts, their ponderous ham- 
mers clang : 

And, till its fire 's extinct, the monstrous mass they 
beat 

To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant 
British fleet. 

Charles Dibdin. 



®^l)e iTorging of tt)e Anchor. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 'tis at a 

white heat now — , 

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though, 

on the forge's brow, 
The little flames still fitfully play through the 

sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 

ranking round ; 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands 

only bare. 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the 

windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains — the black 

mould lieaves below ; 
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at 

every throe. 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — Vulcan, what 

a glow ! 



646 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 



'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high 
sun shines not so ! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fear- 
ful show ! 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy 
lurid row 

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men 
before the foe ! 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sail- 
ing monster slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery 
grow : 

" Hurrah ! " they shout, '* leap o.it, leap out ! " 
bang, bang ! the sledges go ; 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high 
and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- 
ing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling 
cinders strew 

The ground around ; at every bound the swelter- 
ing fountains flow ; 

And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every 
stroke pant " ho ! " 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, and lay 
on load ! 

Let 's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and 
broad ; 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I 
bode ; 

And 1 see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
road — 

The low reef roaring on her lee ; the roll of ocean 
poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast 
by the board ; 

The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the boats 
stove at the chains ; 

But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet 
remains ! 

vAnd not an inch to flinch he deigns — save when 
ye pitch sky high ; 

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Pear 
nothing — here am 1 1 " 

Swing in your strokes in order ! let foot and hand 

keep time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any 

steeple's chime. 



But while ye swing your sledges, sing : and let the 

burthen be — 
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen 

we ! 
Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to dull their 

rustling red ; 
Our hammers ring with sharper din — our work will 

soon be sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich 

array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 

couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry 

craftsmen here 
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the 

sighing seamen's cheer — 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from 

love and home ; 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 

ocean-foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at 

last ; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat 

was cast. 
trusted and trustworthy guard ! if thou hadst 

life like me. 
What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the 

deep-green sea ! 
deep sea-diver, who might then behold such 

sights as thou I — 
The hoary monster's palaces ! — Methinks what joy 

'twere now 
To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly 

of the whales, 
And feel tlie churned sea round me boil beneath 

their scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all 

his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade for- 
lorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his 

jaws to scorn : 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid 

Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed 

miles — 



SHIPS AT SEA. 



647 



Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he 

rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished 

shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in a 

cove 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's 

love. 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by 

icy lands. 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean 

sands. 

broad-armed fisher of the deep ! whose sports 

can equal thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy 

cable-line ; 
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day 

by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant 

game to play. 
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 

I gave : 
A fisher's Joy is to destroy — thine ofiice is to save. 
lodger in the sea-kings' halls ! couldst thou but 

understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side — or who 

that dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round 

about thee bend, 
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing 

their ancient friend — 
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with 

larger steps round thee. 
Thine iron side would swell with pride — thou'dst 

leap within the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant 
strand 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of father- 
land — 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 
churchyard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! 

Oh, though our '-r \r may not be all I have fondly 
sung. 

Honor him for t :• memory whose bones he goes 

among ! 

Samuel Ferguson. 



Q\)ipQ at Bca. 

I HAVE ships that went to sea, 

More than fifty years ago ; 
None have yet come home to me, 

But are sailing to and fro. 
I have seen them in my sleep, 
Plunging through the shoreless deep, 
With tattered sails and battered hulls. 
While around them screamed the gulls, 

Flying low, flying low. 

I have wondered why they stayed 

From me, sailing round the world ; 
And I've said, " I'm half afraid 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
Great the treasures that they hold. 
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
While the spices that they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air, 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah ! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea. 
Of the winds and waves the sport, 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and with me walk, 
Cheering me with hopeful talk. 
Till I put my fears aside. 
And, contented, watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise and fall. 

I have waited on the piers. 

Gazing for them down the bay, 
Days and nights for many years, 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they land, 
Stop and take me by the hand. 
Saying, " You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all." 

So I never quite despair. 
Nor let hope or courage fail ; 

And some day when skies are fair, 
Up the bay my ships will sail, 

I shall buy then all I need, — 

Prints to look at, books to read, 



648 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Horses, wines, and works of art, — 
Everything except a heart — 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when I was pure and young, 

Richer, too, than I am now. 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung. 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow. 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she 's something now divine, 
And though come my ships from sea, 
They can bring no heart to me 

Evermore, evermore. 

Robert Barry Coffin. 



^ (Crg from tlic 0l)orc. 

Come down, ye graybeard mariners, 

Unto the wasting shore ! 
The morning winds are up ; the gods 

Bid me to dream no more. 
Come, tell me whither I must sail. 

What peril there may be, 
Before 1 take my life in hand 

And venture out to sea ! 

" We may not tell thee where to sail. 

Nor what the dangers are : 
Each sailor soundeth for himself. 

Each hath a separate star ; 
Each sailor soundeth for himself, 

And on the awful sea 
What we have learned is ours alone ; 

We may not tell it thee." 

Come back, ghostly mariners, 

Ye who have gone before ! 
I dread the dark, impetuous tides; 

I dread the further shore. 
Tell me the secret of the waves ; 

Say what my fate shall be — 
Quick ! for the mighty winds are up, 

And will not wait for me. 

" Hail and farewell, voyager ! 

Thyself must read the waves ; 
What we have learned of sun and storm 

Lies with us in our graves : 



What we have learned of sun and storm 

Is ours alone to know^ 
The winds are blowing out to sea : 

Take up thy life and go ! " 

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. 



tolicre £ics \\\c £anb? 

Where lies the land to which the ship would 

go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And w^here the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face. 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ! 
Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming w^ake far widening as w^e go. 

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave. 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would 

gof 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from f Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



^otttl) anb (taint. 

'Tis death ! and peace indeed is here. 
And ease from shame, and rest from fear. 
There's nothing can dismarble now 
The smoothness of tha' Umpid brow. 
But is a calm like this, ruth. 
The crowning end of litC3A''id youth, 
And when tliis boon re Is the dead. 
Are all debts paid, has Q^^^ een said ? 
And is the heart of you '4 zht. 
Its step so firm, its eye s^'g b'ght. 
Because on its hot brow t. blows 
A wind of {)romise and rei g^^j 
From the far grave, to whi . it goes ; 



i 




g 



^ 

^ 



4 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



649 



Because it has the hope to come, 

One day, to harbor in the tomb? 

Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 

For daylight, for the cheerful sun, 

For feeling nerves and living breath — 

Youth dreams a bliss on this side death ! 

It dreams a rest, if not more deep, 

More grateful than this marble sleep ; 

It hears a voice within it tell : 

Calm 's not life's ci^oivn, though calm is well ! 

'Tis all, perhaps, which man acquires, 

But 'tis not what our youth desires. 

Matthew Arnold. 



®l)e Solbier's IDream. 

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had 
lowered. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the 
sky; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 
powered — 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain. 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 



Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 



Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary and 
worn ! 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow returned with the dawning of mom, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbkll. 



^\\z Sattle of Slenlieiin. 

It was a summer evening — 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 

Which he beside the rivulet. 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head ; 

And, with a natural sigh — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden, 
For there 's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out ; 

For many thousand men." said he, 

" Were slain in the great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder- waiting eyes — 
" Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they fought each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they fought each other for, 
I could not well make out ; 



650 



P0E3IS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



But everybody said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory. 

" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide : 
And many a childing mother there. 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won — 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! " 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl ! " quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And everybody praised the duke. 

Who this great fight did win," 
" But what good came of it at last?" 

Quoth little Peterkin. 
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 

Egbert Southey, 



Victorious iMcw of €artl). 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are : 
Though you bind in every shore, 
And your triumphs reach as far 
As night or day, 
Yet you proud monarchs must obey. 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ve to the crowd of common men. 



Devouring famine, plague, and war. 

Each able to undo mankind. 
Death's servile emissaries are ; 
Nor to these alone confined — 
He hath at will 
More quaint and subtle ways to kill : 
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art. 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 

James Shirley. 



®l)e Arsenal at Sprinigficl^. 

This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling. 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and 
dreary — 

When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal miserere 

Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
The cries of agony, the endless groan. 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
Li long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's 
song ; 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din ; 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



1 

SUXBISU C03IES TO-MORROW. 651 


Is it, man, with such discordant noises, 


True, the rich despise the poor, 


With such accursed instruments as these, 


And the poor desire 


Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices. 


Food still from the rich man's door, • 


And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 


Fuel from his fire : 




True that, in this age of ours, 


Were half the power that fills the world with 


There are none to guide us — 


terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and 


Gone the grand primeval powers ! 
Selfish aims divide us ; 


courts, 


True the plaint ; but if more ti-ue. 


Given to redeem the human mind from error. 


I would not deplore it ; 


There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 


If an Eden fade from view, 


The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ; 


Time may yet restore it. 


And every nation that should lift again 




Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 


Evil comes, and evil goes. 


Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! 


But it moves me never ; 




For the good, the good, it grows, 


Down the dark future, through long generations. 


Buds and blossoms ever. 


The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 


Winter still succeeds to spring. 


And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 


But fresh springs are coming ; 


I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 


Other birds are on the wing, 


"Peace!" 


Other bees are humming. 




I have loved with right good-wiU, 


Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 


Mourned my hopes departed. 


The blast of war's great organ shakes the 


Dreamed my golden dream — and still 


skies ; 


Am not broken-hearted. 


But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 


Problems are there hard to solve, 


The holy melodies of love arise. 


And the weak may try them — 


Hexkt Wadsworth Longfellow. 


May review them and revolve, 




While the strong pass by them. 




Sages prove that God is not ; 


gnnrisc comes ^o-iHorrotD. 


But I still adore him. 
See the shadow in each spot 


True it is that clouds and mist 

Blot the clear, blue weather ; 
True that lips that once have kissed 

Come no more together : 
True that when we would do good, 

Evil often follows ; 
True that green leaves quit the wood, 

Summers lose their swallows : 
True that we must live alone. 


That he casts before him. 
What if cherished creeds must fade ? 

Faith will never leave us ; 
God preserves what God has made, 

Nor can truth deceive us. 
Let in light — the holy light ! 

Brothers, fear it never ; 
Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right : 

Let in light forever ! 


Dwell with pale dejections ; 




True that we must often moan 


Let in light ! When this shall be 


Over crushed affections : 


Safe and pleasant duty, 


True that man his queen awaits — 


Men in common things shall see 


True that, sad and lonely. 


Goodness, truth, and beauty ; 


Woman, through her prison-gates. 


And as noble Plato sings — 


Sees her tyrant only : 


Hear it, lords and ladies 1 — 



652 



FOEJIS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTIONS, 



We shall love and praise the things 

That are down in Hades. 
Glad am I, and glad will be ; 

For my heart rejoices 
When sweet looks and lips I see, 

When I hear sweet voices. 
I will hope, and work, and love, 

Singing to the hours. 
While the stars are bright above, 

And below, the flowers ; 
Apple-blossoms on the trees, 

Gold-cups in the meadows, 
Branches waving in the breeze. 

On the grass their shadows ; 
Blackbirds whistling in the wood. 

Cuckoos shouting o'er us ; 
Clouds, with white or crimson hood, 

Pacing right before us. 
Who, in such a world as this. 

Could not heal his sorrow % 
Welcome this sweet sunset bliss — 

Sunrise comes to-morrow ! 

Anonymous. 



DesponbcncD Uebukeir. 

Say not, the struggle nought availeth. 
The labor and the wounds are vain. 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain. 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



^\\t Bucket. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
wood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood 
by it ; 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract 
fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 
For often at noon, when returned from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- 
ing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow- 
ing. 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to re- 
ceive it. 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation. 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 

Samuel Woodworth. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



653 



©It tl)e Ecceipt of tnti iltotlier's picture 

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN 
BODHAM. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails — else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears away ! " 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it ! ) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun % 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll on thy burial day ; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent. 



I learned at last submission to my lot ; 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
more — 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home — 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : 
All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as ray numbers may — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while — 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 

smile) — 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, w^ould I wish them 

here? 
1 would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) 



654 



POEMS OF SEXTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay — 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ; " 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again — 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

William Co'wpkr. 



(El}e ilrat)eller; 

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door, 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untra veiled fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 



Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and time their evening fire ! 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair I 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned. 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 

But me, not destined such delights to share. 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care ; 
Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view, 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My future leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high above the storm's career. 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear : 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom 

vain i 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man : 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor 

crowned ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
For me your tributary stores combine. 
Creation's heir, the world — the world is minel 

As some lone miser visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still, 



THE TRAVELLER. 



655 



Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the sum of human bliss so small : 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consigned, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at 

rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
The naked negro, planting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the goods they 

gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam. 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations, makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call : 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frowii. 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent, — 
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 

fails, 
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state, to our loved blessing prone. 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favorite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends, 
Till, carried to excess in each domain. 
This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 



But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resigned, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. 
Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride, 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil. 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand. 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling : zealous, yet untrue ! 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind. 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the 

date 
When commerce proudly flourished through the 

state. 
At her command the palace learned to rise, 
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies. 
The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teemed with human form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
While naught remained, of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave ; 



656 



P0E3IS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions formed for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled ; 
The sports of children satisfy the child : 
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
As in those domes where Ca?sars once bore 

sway. 
Defaced by time, and tottering in decay. 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn me to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread: 
No product here the barren hills afford 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 
No vernal l)looms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
But jneteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though 

small. 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal : 
But calm, and l)red in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn he M'akes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes; 



With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labor sped. 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks that brighten to the blaze, 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot lesson on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assigned : 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined ; 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
[f few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redressed. 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies. 
That first excites desire and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ! 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 

flame. 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire. 
Nor quenched by want, nor fanned by strong de- 
sire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, — 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unaltered, unimproved the manners run ; 



THE TRAVELLER. 



657 



And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
Ma^'' sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 

the way, — 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn, and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease. 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 

please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
When shading elms along the margin grew. 
And, freshened from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch flattering still. 
But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's 

skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful 

maze ; 
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand. 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise: 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved or warmly sought 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 

44 



Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies. 
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land. 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rarapire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow. 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow. 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth im- 
parts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
E'en liberty itself is bartered here ; 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies. 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of 
old! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold. 
War in each breast and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 



Ql)8 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentler music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind. 

Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state. 
With daring aims irregularly great. 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by : 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right above control, — 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
here. 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown : 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled; 
Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar. 
Repressed ambition struggles round her shore. 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst : as nature's ties decay. 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come when, stripped of all her 

charms, 
Tlie land of scholars and the nurse of arms. 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
Where kings have toiled and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. 



But think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun, — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure. 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That those that think must govern those that 

toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh then how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires 1 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
Except when fast approaching danger warms ; 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free, 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law. 
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
Tear off reserve and bare my swelling heart, 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
And thus, polluting honor in its source. 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destniction haste. 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 
In barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling, oft-frequented village falH 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



659 



Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main. 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests and through dangerous 

ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to And 
That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
Still to themselves in every place consigned, 
Our own felicity we make or find ; 
With secret course which no loud storms annoy 
Grlides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



(Jlie IDeserteb billage. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 

swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 



How often have T paused on every charm — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade — 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still as each repeated pleasures tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
prove : 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these. 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed ; 
These were' thy charms — but all these charms are 
fled. 

Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 



660 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Ill fai'es the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store — 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires tliat asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

■ scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the 

green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
xVnd, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 

skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 



And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

blest retirement ! friend to life's decline ! 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these. 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations 

try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the w^hispering 

wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
Xo cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread — 
But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. 
All but one widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



661 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden 

smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns disjnayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 



Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man. 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
tressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were 

given — 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view — 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thundering- 
sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame ; the very spot, 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its liead on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 



662 



P0E3IS OF SEXTniEyr AXD REFLECTION, 



Lo^ jies liiat IlOli^c ^vhcie nui-brown draughts 

inspired, 
^here gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
found. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The T?.mished clock that clicked behind the door. 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the 

day. 
With aspen-boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Hanged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
O'ijscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the p)oor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care : 
Xo more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
Xo more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
Xo more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Xor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes I let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
These simple blessings of the lowly train : 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-bom sway : 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind. 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfinetl : 
But the long pomp, the midnight mascpierade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : 
And. e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 



Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay I 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore. 
And shouting foUy hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world aroiind. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Xot so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds — 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robl^ed the neighboring fields of half their 

growth: 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the c-ottage fi'om the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
WhQe thus the land, adorned for pleasure all 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the falL 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Shghts every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
plies, 
Xor shares with art the triumph of her eyes : 
But when Ihose charms are past — for charms are 

fraQ — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotenc-e of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxur}' betrayed. 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise : 
WIiQe, scourged by famine from the smiling 

land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah I where shall poverty reside. 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 



THE DESERTED TILLAGE. 



663 



Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di^-ide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share : 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each Joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow<rearures' woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade: 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- 
play. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 

reign. 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumidtuous grandeur crowds the blazing square — 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy I 
Sure these denote one universal joy I 
Are these thv serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies : 
She onc-e, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
Xow lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 
Xear her betrayers door she lays her head : 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When, idly first, ambitious of the town. 
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the loveliest 
train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now. perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no I To distant climes, a dreary scene. 

Where half the convex world intrudes between. 

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 
go. 

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 

Far different there, from aU that charmed be- 
fore. 

The various terrors of that horrid shore : 



Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling : 

Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where the dark sc-orpion gathers death around : 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake : 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men more murderous stiU than 

they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from ever)' former sc-ene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 
The breezv covert of the warblinsr grove. 
That onlv sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven I what sorrows gloomed that parting 

day 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their 

last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to fac-e the distant deep, 
Ketumed and wept, and still returned to weep ! 
The good old sire the flrst prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe : 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a 

tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear : 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

luxury 1 thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 



664 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 

Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 

At every draught more large and large they 
grow, 

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 

Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 
sound, 

Down, dpwn they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 

sail 
•That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 

so ! 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! 
Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well ! 
Farewell ! — and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side — 
Wliether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wi'aps the polar world in snow — 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength pos- 

sest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
Tliat trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ofcan sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



®l)e JSells 0f Sl)anbon. 

Sabbata imngo; 
Fnnera plango ; 
Solemnia clango. 

Inscription on an old bell. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells. 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander. 
And thus grow fonder. 

Sweet Cork, of thee — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 

Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in. 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican — 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Daiile ; 



THE BELLS, 



665 



But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk oh 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there 's an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Fatheb Prout. (Francis Mahony.) 



®lie Bells. 



Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells — 
What a world of merriment their melody fore- 
tells ! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight — 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation tha.t so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— - 
From the jingling and*the tinkling of the bells. 



II. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony fore- 
tells ! 

Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 

III. 

Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune, 
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 

fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic 
fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells. 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 



666 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Yet the ear it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging. 

How the danger ebbs and flows ; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling. 

And the wrangling. 

How the danger sinks and swells, 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 

bells — 

Of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

IV. 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody 
compels ! 

In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 
They are ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls, 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pjran of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the p.Tpan of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 



To the throbbing of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 
To the sobbing of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 
As he knells, knells, knells. 

In a happy Runic rhyme. 
To the rolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells -^ 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 

Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Edgae Allan Poe. 



^Ic^eanber's i^east; ox, \\)t poujcr of 
iUusic. 

AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft, in awful state. 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; 
(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate, like a blooming eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, Jiappy pair ! 

None hut the brave. 

None hut the hrave. 
None hut the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful quire. 

With flying fingers touched the lyre ; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 



ALEXAXDER'S FEAST. 667 


The song began from Jove, 


Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 


AVho left his blissful seats above, 


Fought all his battles o'er again ; 


(Such is the power of mighty Love). 


And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he 


A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 


slew the slain. 


Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 


The master saw the madness rise — 


When he to fair Olympia pressed, 


His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 


And while he sought her snowy breast ; 


And, while he heaven and earth defied. 


Then, round her slender waist he curled, 


Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 


And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 


He chose a mournful muse, 


the world. 


Soft pity to infuse, 


The listening crowd admire the lofty sound — 


He sung Darius great and good, 


A f)resent deity I they shout around ; 


By too severe a fate 


A present deity I the vaulted roofs rebound. 


Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen — 


With ravished ears 


Fallen from his high estate. 


The monarch hears, 


And weltering in his blood ; 


Assumes the god, 


Deserted, at his utmost need. 


Affects to nod. 


By those his former bounty fed ; 


And seems to shake the spheres. 


On the bare earth exposed he lies, 




With not a friend to close his eyes. 


CHORUS. 


VV ith downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 


With ravished ears 


Revolving in his altered soul 


The monarch hears. 


The various turns of chance below ; 


Assumes the god, 


And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 


Affects to nod, 


And tears began to flow. 


And seems to shake the spheres. 






CHORUS. 


The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician 
suno" — 


Revolving in his altered soul 


Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 
The jolly god in triumph comes : 
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ! 


The various turns of chance below; 
And, now arid then, a sigh he stole; 
And tears began to flow. 


Flushed with a purple grace, 




He shows his honest face ; 


The mighty master smiled, to see 


Xow give the hautboys breath — he comes, he 


That love was in the next degree ; 


comes I 


'Twas but a kindred sound to move. 


Bacchus, ever fair and young. 


For pity melts the mind to love. 


Drinking joys did first ordain ; 


Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 


Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 


Soon he soothed his soul to pleasiu'es. 


Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 


War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 


Rich the treasure. 


Honor but an empty bubble — 


Sweet the pleasure ; 


Xever ending, still beginning — 


Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


Fighting still, and still destroying ; 




If the world be worth thy winning. 


CHORUS. 


Think, oh think it worth enjoying I 


Bacchus' blessi?igs are a treasure; 


Lovely Thais sits beside thee — 


DrinTxing is the soldier s pleasure : 


Take the goods the gods provide thee. 


Rich the treasure, 


The many rend the sky with loud applause ; 


Sweet the pleasure ; 


So love was crowned, but music won the 


Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


cause. 



668 POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 


The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 


CHORUS. 


Gazed on the fair 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 


Who caused his care. 


Ilia is led the wag 


And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 


To light him to his prey. 


Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 


And, nice another Helen, fired another Troy. 


At length, with love and wine at once op- 




pressed, 


Thus, long ago — 


The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 


Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 




While organs yet were mute — 


CHORUS. 


Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 




And sounding lyre. 


The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 


Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 


Gazed on the fair 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


^Mlo caused his care, 


Inventress of the vocal frame ; 


And sighed and looJced, sighed and looked. 


The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 


Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 


7 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 


At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 


And added length to solemn sounds. 


TJie vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 


With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown be- 




fore. 


Xow strike the golden lyre again — 


Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 


A louder yet, and yet a louder strain I 


Or both divide the crown ; 


Break his bands of sleep asunder. 


He raised a mortal to the skies. 


And rouse hini, like a rattling peal of thunder. 


She drew an angel down. 


Hark, hark I the horrid sound 




Has raised up his head I 


GRAND CHORUS. 


As awaked from the dead, 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


And amazed, he stares around. 


Inventress of the vocal frame ; 


Revenge I revenge I Tiraotheus cries ; 


The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 


See the Furies ai"ise I 


Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 


See the snakes that they rear, 


And added length to solemn sou7ids, 


How they hiss in their hair, 


With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknoum before. 


And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 


Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 


Behold a ghastly band, 


Or both divide the crown : 


Each a torch in his hand ! 


He raised a mortal to the skies, 


Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 


She drew an angel down. 


slain, 


Jows Drtdex. 


And unburied remain. 




. Inglorious, on the plain ! 




Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 


(Tliosc Aliening Cells. 


Behold how they toss their torches on high. 


Those evening bells I those evening bells ! 


How they point to the Persian abodes. 


How many a tale their music tells, 


And glittering temples of their hostile gods I 


Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 


The princes applaud with a furious joy, 


When last I heard their soothing chime ! 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 




destroy ; 


Those joyous hours are passed away ; 


Thais led the wav 

• 


And many a heart that then was gay. 


To light him to his prey, 


Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 


And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 


And hears no more those evening bells. 



THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER. 



669 



And so 'twill be when I am gone — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

Thomas Moore. 



Influence of iHnsic. 

Orpheus, with his lute, made trees. 
And the mountain-tops that freeze. 

Bow themselves when he did sing-; 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers 

There had made a lasting Spring. 

Every thing that heard him play. 
Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art. 
Killing care, and grief of heart — 

Fall asleep, or, hearing, die ! 

WnxiAai Shakespeare. 



ittnsic. 

When whispering strains with creeping wind 

Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
And when at every touch we find 
Oiir pulses beat and bear a part ; 
When threads can make 
A heartstring ache, 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls are made of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys we faine 
Whate'er the soul affeeteth most. 
Which only thus we can explain 
By music of the heavenly host, 
V\Tiose lays, Ave think, 
Make stars to wink : 
Philosophy 
Can scarce deny 
Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh. lull me, lull me. charming air ! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet ! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 

Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 



Grief who needs fear 
That hath an ear? 
Down let him lie, 
And slumbering die. 
And change his soul for harmony. 

William Strode. 



STlie illnstic (lEruntpeter. 

Hark ! some wild trumpeter, some strange musi- 
cian. 

Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes 
to-night. 

I hear thee, trumpeter ; listening, alert, I catch 

thy notes : 
Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, 
Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost. 

Come nearer, bodiless one ; haply, in thee resounds 
Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life 
Was filled with aspirations high, unformed ideals. 
Waves, oceans musical, chastically surging, 
That now, ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy 

cornet echoing, pealing, 
Gives out to no one's ears but mine, but freely 

gives to mine. 
That I may thee translate. 

Blow, trumpeter, free and clear; I follow thee, 

While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene. 

The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of 

day, withdraw; 
A holy calm cfescends, like dew, upon me, 
I walk in cool refreshing night, the walks of Para- 
dise, 
I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses ; 
Thy song expands my numbed, imbonded spirit ; 

thou freest, launchest me. 
Floating and basking upon heaven's lake. 

Blow again, trumpeter ! and, for my sensuous eyes, 
Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world. 

What charm thy music works ! thou makest pass 

before me 
Ladies and cavaliers long dead ; barons are in their 

castle halls ; the troubadours are singing ; 



670 



POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION. 



Armed knights go forth to redress wrongs, some in 

quest of the Holy Grraal : 
I see the tournament, I see the contestants, encased 

in hea^'T armor, seated on stately, champing 

horses ; 
I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting 

steel : 
I see the crusaders' tumultuous armies. Hark ! 

how the cymbals clang ! 
Lo ! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the 

cross on high ! 

Blow again, trumpeter ! and for thy theme 

Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent 
and the setting ; 

Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and the 
pang; 

The heart of man and woman all for love ; 

Xo other theme but love, knitting, enclosing, all- 
diffusing love ! 

Oh, how the immortal phantoms crowd around 
me 1 

I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and 
know the flames that heat the world : 

The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lov- 
ers, 

So blissful happy some, and some so silent, dark, 
and nigh to death ; 

Love, that is all the earth to lovers ; Love that 
mocks time and space ; 

Love, that is day and night ; Love, that is sun and 
moon and stars ; 

Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with per- 
fume ; 

Xo other words, but words of love; no other 
thought but Love. 

Blow again, trumpeter! conjure war's wild alar- 
ums. 

Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant 
thunder rolls ; 

Lo ! where the armed men hasten. Lo ! mid the 
clouds of dust, the glint of bayonets ; 

I see the grime-faced cannoniers; I mark the rosy 
flasli amid the smoke ; 1 hear the cracking of 
the guns : 

Nor war alone : thy fearful music-song, wild player, 
brings every sight of fear. 



The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder ; I 

hear the cries for help ! 
I see ships foundering at sea ; I behold on deck, 

and below deck, the terrible tableaux. 

trumpeter ! methinks I am myself the instru- 

ment thou playest ! 
Thou melt'st my heart, my brain ; thou movest, 

drawest, changest them, at will : 
And nowthy sullen notes send darknessthrough me; 
Thou takest away all cheering light, all hope : 

1 see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the 

opprest of the whole earth ; 

I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my 
race, it becomes all mine ; 

Mine too the revenges of humanity, the wrongs of 
ages, baffled feuds and hatreds : 

Utter defeat upon me weighs : all lost ! the foe vic- 
torious ! 

Yet 'mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken 
to the last ; 

Endurance, resolution, to the last. 

Xow. trumpeter, for thy close. 

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet ; 

Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and 

hope: 
Rouse up my slow belief, ^ixa. me some vision of 

the future ; 
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. 

glad, exulting, culminating song ! 

A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes ! 

Marches of victory, man disenthralled, the con- 
queror at last I 

Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man, 
all joy ! 

A re-born race appears, a perfect world, all joy I 

Women and men in wisdom, innocence, and health, 
all joy ! 

Riotous, laughing Bacchanals, filled with joy ! 

War, sorrow, suffering gone; the rank earth 
purged : nothing but joy left ! 

The ocean filled with joy. the atmosphere all joy ! 

Joy I joy! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the 
ecstasy of life ! 

Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! 

Joy I joy ! all over joy ! Walt Whitman. 



THE PASSIOyS. 



671 



^[\z Passions. 

AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heareniy maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell — 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — 
Possest beyond the muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewildered laid, 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rashed ; his eyes, on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyi'e, 
And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds, his gi'ief beguiled — 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts "twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair — 

What was thy delightful measure ? 

Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the rale. 

She called on Echo still, throusfh all the sons: : 
And. where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every 

close ; 
And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 
hair. 



And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose ; 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder 
down ; 
And. with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sotmds so full of woe ! 
And. ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
tween, 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien. 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And now it courted Love — now, ra^-iug, called 
on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
And, from her wild seCj[Uestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet. 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive 
soul: 
And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 
stole : 
Or. o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 
Rotmd an holy calm diffusing. 
Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone 
Wlien Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
hue. 
Her bow across her shotilder flung. 

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung — 
The himter's call, to faun and dryad known I 
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed 
queen. 



673 



P0E3IS OF SENTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOJ^. 



Sat}Ts and sylvan boys, were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen 
spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 

He, with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the 
best ; 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
Amidst the festal soundmg shades. 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess ! why. to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower, 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul. nymph endeared. 
Can well recall what then it heard; 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 
Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
'Tis said — and I believe the tale — 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age — 
E'en all at once together found — 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
Oh bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece I 
Return in all thy simple state — 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

William Collins. 



^0 Constontia — Singing. 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die, 

Perchance were death indeed! Constantia, 
turn! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie. 
Even though the sounds which were thy voice, 
which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it 
is yet. 
And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are 

wet — 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not for- 
get ! 

A breathless awe like the swift change, 
Unseen but felt, in youthful slumbers. 

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, 

Thou breathest now in fast ascending num- 
bers. 

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain ; 

And on my shoulders wings are woven, 
To follow its sublime career 

Beyond the mighty moons that wane 
L'pon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, 
Till the world's shadowy walls are past and dis 
appear. 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers, 
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings ; 

The blood and life within those snowy fingers 
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. 

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 
The blood is listening in my frame ; 

And thronging shadows, fast and thick. 
Fall on my overflowing eyes ; 

My heart is quivering like a flame; 
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, 
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. 

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee ; 

Whilst, like the world - surrounding air, thy 
song 
Flows on, and fills all things with melody. 

Now is thy voice a tempest, swift and strong. 



ON A LADY SINGING. 



678 



On which, like one in trance upborne, 

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep. 
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. 

Now 'tis the breath of summer night. 
Which, when the starry waters sleep, 

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms 
bright. 

Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous 

flight. 

Percy Btsshe Shellbt. 



<J!)n a £abrj Singing. 

Oft as my lardy sang for me 
That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea, 
Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress-tree, 
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole. 
For 'twas made of old sadness that lives in my 
soul. 

So still grew my heart at each tender word 
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred, 
And I hardly breathed, but only heard. 
Where was I ? — not in the world of men, 
Until she awoke me with silence again. 

Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom 
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume, 
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room. 
Whether it came from the vine without. 
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt. 

Light shadows played on the pictured wall 
From the maples that fluttered outside the 

hall. 
And hindered the daylight — yet ah ! not all ; 
Too little for that all the forest would be — 
Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me ! 

When my sense returned, as the song was 

o'er, 

I fain would have said to her, " Sing it once 

more ; " 

But soon as she smiled my wish T forbore : 

Music enough in her look 1 found, 

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the 

sound. 

Thomas William Parsons. 

45 



^ (Eanabian Boat- Song. 

Et remigem cantvs Jiortatur.—Qlvnvi'n-Lws. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim. 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 



Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? — 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows off the shore. 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 

Utawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers — 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 

Thomas Moore. 



to 



Oman s uoitc. 



t). 



" Her voice was ever low, 
Gentle and soft — an excellent thing in woman.'" 

King Lear. 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees, 

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn — 

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, 
Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim, 

Is earth's best music : these may move awhile 

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking cares 
beguile. 

But even as the swallow's silken wings. 
Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, 

Stir the still silver with a hundred rings — 
So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake 

To brave the danger, and to bear the harm — 

A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chiefest 
charm. 



674 



P0E2IS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLEGTIOX. 



An excellent thing it is, and ever lent 

To truth and love, and meekness ; they who own 
This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent, 

Ever by quiet step and smile are known ; 
By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sor- 
rowed — 
By patience never tired, from their own trials bor- 
rowed. 

An excellent thing it is, when first in gladness 
A mother looks into her infant's eyes, 

Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sadness, 
Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries ; 

Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys — 

All these come ever blent with one low gentle 
voice. 

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving. 

Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares, 
The strong heart failing, and the high soul griev- 
ing 
With strangest thoughts, and with unwonted 
fears ; 
Then, then a woman's low soft sympathy 
Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to die. 

But a most excellent thing it is in youth. 

When the fond lover hears the loved one's tone, 
That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — 

How their two hearts are one, and she his own ; 
It makes sweet human music — oh I the spells 
That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed maiden 
teUs ! 

ED^\^^^ Arnold. 



(Bgti^jtian Scrcnabe. 

SiXG again the song you sung 
When we were together young — 
When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though 1 know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 

George William Curtis. 



Song. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

StiU to be powdered, still perfumed — 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Bex Jonsox. 



Dcligl)t in Disorder. 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction — 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthralls the crimson stomacher — 
A cuff neglected, and thereby 
Ribbons to flow confusedly — 
A winning wave, deserv'ing note. 
In the tempestuous petticoat — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility — 
Do more bewitch me than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

Robert Herrick. 



I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 

I saw the flash of robes descending ; 

Before her ran an influence fleet. 
That bowed my heart like barley bending. 

As, in bare flelds, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on — by sweet degrees, 
Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 



WHO IS SYLVIAN 



or: 



Those graces were that seemed grim fates ; 

With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me ; 
The long-sought secret's golden gates 

On musical hinges swung before me. 

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
Thrilling with god hood ; like a lover, 

I sprang the proffered life to clasp — 
The beaker fell ; the luck was over. 

The earth has drunk the vintage up ; 

What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 
Can summer fill the icy cup 

Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's ? 

spendthrift haste ! await the gods ; 

Their nectar crowns the lips of patience. 
Haste scatters on unthankful sods 

The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 

And shuns the hands would seize upon her : 

Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 

James Russell Lowell. 



tDl)o is Siiliiia? 

Who is Sylvia ? what is she, 

That all the swains commend her ? 

Holy, fair, and wise, is she ; 
The heavens such grace did lend her 

That she might adored be. 

Is she kind, or is she fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love does to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness — 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing 

That Sylvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling; 
To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakespeare. 



Sonne t. 

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire, 

But more immortal beauty to withstand ; 
The perfect soul can overcome desire, 

If beauty with divine delight be scanned. 
For what is l)eauty, but the blooming child 

Of fair Olympus, that in night must end. 
And be for ever from that bliss exiled, 

If admiration stand too much its friend ? 
The wind may be enamored of a flower, 

The ocean of the green and laughing shore, 
The silver lightning of a lofty tower — 

But must not with too near a love adore; 
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower, 
Love and delight shall with delight devour ! 

Lord Thurlow. 



5ong. 

Lady, leave thy silken thread 

And flowery tapestry — 
There 's living roses on the bush, 

And blossoms on the tree. 
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 

Some random bu<l will meet ; 
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find 

The daisy at thy feet. 

'Tis like the birthday of the world, 

When earth was born in bloom ; 
The light is made of many dyes, 

The air is all perfume ; 
There 's crimson buds, and white and blue - 

The very rainbow showei"? 
Have turned to blossoms where they fell, 

And sown the earth with flowers. 

There's fairy tulips in the east — 

The garden of the sun : 
The very streams reflect the hues, 

And blossom as they run ; 
While morn opes like a crimson rose. 

Still wot witli pearly sliowers : 
Then, lady, leave the silken thread 

Thou twinest into flowers ! 

Thomas Hood. 



676 



POEJIS OF SEXTIMEXT ASB BEFLECTIOX. 



Slic ilViiks in BcaiUn. 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 

And all that "s best of dark and bright 
3Ieets in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face — 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwellmg-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 

But teU of days- in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord BxBoy. 



i^crmionc. 

Thou hast beauty bright and fair, 

Manner noble, aspect free. 
Eyes that are untouched by care : 

What then do we ask from thee ? 
Hermione, Hermione ? 

Thou hast reason quick and strong, 
Wit that envious men admire, 

And a voice, itself a song ! 

VMiat then can we still desire f 
Hermirme, Hermione ? 

Something thou dost want. queen ! 

(As the gold doth ask alloy) : 
Tears amid thy laughter seen. 
Pity mingling with thy joy. 

This is all we ask from thee, 
Hermione, Hermione ! 

Barry Corxwaix. 



d)c Golitarg Ucapcr. 

Behold her. single in the field, 

Ton solitary Highland lass I 
Eeaping and singing by herself ; 

Stop here, or gently pass I 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
Oh listen I for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

Xo nightingale did ever chant 

More welcome notes to weary bands 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands ; 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring time from the cuckoo bird. 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the faith est Hebrides. 

Will no one teU me what she sings ? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old. unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago ; 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day i 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, or may be again ? 

Whatever the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 

I saw her singing at her work 
And o'er her sickle bending ; — 

I listened motionless and still ; 

And, as I mounted up the hill. 

The music in my heart I bore 

Long after it was heard no more. 

WnTi»-M Wordsworth. 



Sl)c tons a phiintom of Dcligtit. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament : 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 

Like twilight's, too. her dusky hair, 



' 1 



TO 3IY SISTEB. 



677 



But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn — 
A dancing sliape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

J saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too : 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food — 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now 1 see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

WiLLiAJi Wordsworth. 



(To mri Sister, 

WITH A COPY OF " SUPERXATURALISM OF NEW 
ENGLAND." 

Dear sister ! while the wise and sage 
Turn coldly from my playful page. 
And count it strange that ripened age 

Should stoop to boyhood's folly — 
I know that thou wilt judge aright 
Of all that makes the heart more light, 
Or lends one star-gleam to the night 

Of clouded melancholy. 

Away with weary cares and themes ! 
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! 
Leave free once more the land which teems 

With wonders and romances I 
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, 
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies 
Beneath the quaintly-masking guise 

Of wild and wizard fancies. 



Lo ! once again our feet we set 

On still green wood-paths, twilight wet. 

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret 

The roots of spectral beeches ; 
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er 
Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor. 
And young eyes widening to the lore 

Of faery-folks and witches. 

Dear heart I — the legend is not vain 
Which lights that holy hearth again ; 
And, calling back from care and pain, 

And death's funereal sadness. 
Draws round its old familiar blaze 
The clustering groups of happier days, 
And lends to sober manhood's gaze 

A glimpse of childish gladness. 

And, knowing how my life hath been 

A weary work of tongue and pen, 

A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed men. 

Thou wilt not chide my turning 
To con, at times, an idle rhyme. 
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, 
Or listen, at life's noonday chime. 

For the sweet bells of morning! 

John Greejjleaf Whittier. 



Xllotlicr iHargcrtt. 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges 

Sloped the rough land to the grisly north ; 
And whose hemlocks, clinging to the ledges. 

Like a thinned banditti staggered forth — 
In a crouching, wormy-timbered hamlet 

Mother Margery shivered in the cold. 
With a tattered robe of faded camlet 

On her shouldei*s — crooked, weak, and old. 

Time on her had done his cruel pleasure ; 

For her face was very dry and thin. 
And the records of his growing measure 

Lined and cross-lined all her shrivelled skin. 
Scanty goods to her had l^een allotted. 

Yet her thanks r(»se oftener than desire; 
While her bony fingers. U^it jaid knotted, 

Fed with withered tv.igs the dying fire. 



678 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



Raw and weary were the northern winters ; 

Winds howled piteously around her cot, 
Or with rude sighs made the jarring splinters 

Moan the misery she bemoaned not. 
Drifting tempests rattled at her windows, 

And hung snow-wreaths round her naked bed ; 
While the wind-flaws muttered on the cinders, 

Till the last spark fluttered and was dead. 

Life had fresher hopes when she was younger, 

But their dying wrung out no complaints ; 
Chill, and penury, and neglect, and hunger — 

These to Margery were guardian saints. 
When she sat, her head was, prayer-like, bending ; 

When she rose, it rose not any more ; 
Faster seemed her true heart graveward tending 

Than her tired feet, weak and travel-sore. 

She was mother of the dead and scattered — 

Had been mother of the brave and fair; 
But her branches, bough by bough, were shattered, 

Till her torn breast was left dry and bare. 
Yet she knew, though sadly desolated. 

When the children of the poor depart, 
Their earth-vestures are but sublimated, 

So to gather closer in the heart. 

With a courage that had never fitted 

Words to speak it to the soul it blessed, 
She endured, in silence and unpitied, 

Woes enough to mar a stouter breast. 
Thus was born such holy trust within her. 

That the graves of all who had been dear, 
To a region clearer and serener, 

Raised her spirit from our chilly sphere. 

They were footsteps on her Jacob's ladder ; 

Angels to her were the loves and hopes 
Which had left her purified, but sadder ; 

And they lured her to the emerald slopes 
Of that heaven where anguish never flashes 

Her red fire- whips, — happy land, where flowers 
Blossom over the volcanic ashes 

Of this blighting, blighted world of ours. 

All her power was a love of goodness ; 

All her wisdom was a mystic faith 
That the rough world's jargoning and rudeness 

Turns to music at the gate of death. 



So she walked while feeble limbs allowed her. 
Knowing well that any stubborn grief 

She might meet with could no more than crowd 
her 
To that wall whose opening was relief. 

So she lived, an anchoress of sorrow. 

Lone and peaceful, on the rocky slope ; 
And, when burning trials came, would borrow 

New fire of them for the lamp of hope. 
When at last her palsied hand, in groping. 

Rattled tremulous at the grated tomb. 
Heaven flashed round her joys beyond her hoping. 

And her young soul gladdened into bloom. 

George S. Burleigh, 



^n €|3ita:pl) on tl^c ^bmirable tUramatic 
JJoet, to. Sljakespeare. 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honored 

bones — 
The labor of an age in piled stones f 
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 

name ? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a live-long monument. 
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
Dost make us marble with too much conceiv- 
ing ; 
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 

John Milton. 



©n 'Quaere on. 

Around the tomb, bard divine. 

Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes, 

Long may the deathless ivy twine. 
And summer pour her waste of roses ! 



SHAKESPEARE, 



670 



And many a fount shall there distil, 
And many a rill refresh the flowers ; 

But wine shall gush in ever^ rill, 

And every fount yield milky showers. 

Thus — shade of liim whom nature taught 
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure — 

Who gave to love his warmest thought, 
Who gave to love his fondest measure — 

Thus, after death if spirits feel, 

Thou may'st from odors round thee streaming, 
A pulse of past enjoyment steal. 

And live again in blissful dreaming. 

Antipatek of Sidon. (Greek.) 
Paraphrase of Thomas Moore. 



0l)akcspcare. 

How little fades from earth when sink to rest 
The hours and cai-es that move a great man's 

breast ! 
Though nought of all we saw the grave may 

spare, 
His life pervades the world's impregnate air ; 
Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps 

lies. 
His spirit breathes amid his native skies ; 
With meaning won from him for ever glows 
Each air that England feels, and star it knows ; 
His whispered words from many a mother's voice 
Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice ; 
And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to 

earth 
Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth. 
Amid the sights and tales of common things. 
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of 

kings,— 
Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round, 
Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground. 
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, 
And haunt with living presence heart and eye: 
And tones from him, by other bosoms caught. 
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought : 
And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill, 
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will. 
Above the goodly land, more his than ours. 
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers, 



And sees the heroic brood of his creation 
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. 
shaping brain ! flashing fancy's hues ! 
boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews ! 
wit humane and blithe ! sense sublime ! 
For each dim oracle of mantled time ! 
Transcendant form of man ! in whom we read 
Mankind's whole tale of impulse, thought, and 

deed ! 
Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee. 
We know how vast our world of life may be ; 
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine. 
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine. 

John Sterling. 



^\\t 0l)cpl)erb's punting. 

AN ECLOGUE. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Philarete on mUy calls. 

To sing out his jidstorals ; 

Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes, 

''Spite of envy and the times ; 

And shews hoiv in care he uses 

To take comfort from his muses. 



Philarete. 



WiUy. 



PHILARETE. 

Prythee, Willy! tell me this — 
What new accident there is 
That thou, once the blithest lad, 
Art become so wondrous sad, 
And so careless of thy quill. 
As if thou hadst lost thy skill f 
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks, 
And among the massy rocks 
Hast so cheered me with thy song 
That I have forgot my wrong. 
Something hath thee surely crost, 
That thy old wont thou hast lost. 
Tell me — have I aught mis-said, 
That hath made thee ill-apaid f 
Hath some churl done thee a spite f 
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night? 
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass? 
Or how comes this ill to pass? 



680 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Is there any discontent 

Worse than this my banishment % 

WILLY. 

Why, doth that so evil seem 
That thou nothing worse dost deem? 
Shepherds there full many be 
That will change contents with thee ; 
Those that choose their walks at will, 
On the valley or the hill — 
Or those pleasures boast of can 
Groves or fields may yield to man — 
Never come to know the rest, 
Wherewithal thy mind is blest. 
Many a one that oft resorts 
To make up the troop at sports, 
And in company some while 
Happens to strain forth a smile, 
Feels more want and outward smart, 
And more inward grief of heart. 
Than this place can bring to thee, 
While thy mind remaineth free. 
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth — 
But what find'st thou in this earth 
Wherein aught may be believed 
Worth to make me joy or grieved ? 
And yet feel I, naitheless, 
Part of both I must confess. 
Sometime I of mirth do borrow — 
Otherwhile as much of sorrow ; 
But my present state is such 
As nor joy nor grieve I much. 

PHILARETE. 

Why hath Willy then so long 
Thus forborne his wonted song? 
Wherefore doth he now let fall 
His well-tuned pastoral, 
And my ears that music bar 
Which I more long after far 
Than the liberty I want ? 

WILLY. 

That were very much to grant. 
But doth this hold alway, lad — 
Those that sing not must be sad ? 
Didst thou ever that bird hear 
Sing well that sings all the year ? 



Tom the piper doth not play 
Till he wears his pipe away — 
There 's a time to slack the string. 
And a time to leave to sing. 



PHILARETE. 

Yea ! but no man now is still 

That can sing, or tune a quill. 

Now to chaunt it were but reason — 

Song and music are in season. 

Now, in this sweet jolly tide. 

Is the earth in all her pride ; 

The fair lady of the May, 

Trimmed up in her best array. 

Hath invited all the swains. 

With the lasses of the plains, 

To attend upon her sport . 

At the places of resort. 

Coridon, with his bold rout. 

Hath already been about 

For the elder shepherd's dole. 

And fetched in the summer-pole ; 

Whilst the rest have built a bower 

To defend them from a shower — 

Coiled so close, with boughs all green. 

Titan cannot pry between. 

Now the dairy wenches dream 

Of their strawberries and cream ; 

And each doth herself advance 

To be taken in to dance ; 

Every one that knows to sing 

Fits him for his carolling ; 

So do those that hope for meed 

Either by the pipe or reed ; 

And, though I am kept away, 

I do hear, this very day. 

Many learned grooms do wend 

For the garlands to contend : 

Which a nymph, that hight Desert, 

Long a stranger in this part. 

With her own fair hand hath wrought • 

A rare work, they say, past thought. 

As appeareth by the name. 

For she calls them wreaths of fame. 

She hath set in their due place 

Every flower that may grace ; 

And among a thousand moe. 

Whereof some but serve for show, 



THE SHEPHERD'S HUXTIXG. 



681 



She hath wove in Daphne's tree, 
That they may not blasted be ; 
Which with time she edged about, 
Lest the work should ravel out ; 
And that it might wither never, 
Intermixed it with live-ever. 
These are to be shared among 
Those that do excel for song, 
Or their passions can rehearse 
In the smoothest and sweetest verse. 
Then for those among the rest 
That can play and pipe the best. 
There 's a kidling with the dam, 
A fat wether and a lamb. 
And for those that leapen far, 
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar. 
There 's appointed guerdons too : 
He that best the first can do 
Shall for his reward be paid 
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid 
With fine bone of a strange beast 
That men bring out of the west ; 
For the next a scrip of red, 
Tasselled with fine colored thread ; 
There 's prepared for their meed 
That in running make most speed. 
Or the cunning measures foot. 
Cups of turned maple-root, 
Vfliereupon the skilful man 
Hath engraved the loves of Pan ; 
And the last hath for his due 
A fine napkin wrought with blue. 
Then, my Willy, why art thou 
Careless of thy merit now ? 
What dost thou here, with a wight 
That is shut up from delight 
In a solitary den. 
As not fit to live with men ? 
Go, my Willy ! get thee gone — 
Leave me in exile alone : 
Hie thee to that merry throng. 
And amaze them with thv song ! 
Thou art young, yet such a lay 
Never graced the month of May, 
As. if they provoke thy skill. 
Thou canst fit unto thy quill. 
I with wonder heard thee sing 
At our last vear's revelling. 



Then I with the rest was free. 
When, unknown, I noted thee. 
And perceived the nider swains 
Envy thy far sweeter strains. 
Yea, 1 saw the lasses cling 
Round about thee in a ring, 
As if each one jealous were 
Any but herself should hear ; 
And I know they yet do long 
For the residue of thy song. 
Haste thee then to sing it forth ; 
Take the i^enefit of worth ; 
And Desert will sure bequeath 
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath. 
Hie thee, Willy I hie away. 

WILLY. 

Phila I rather let me stay, 
And be desolate with thee, 
Than at those their revels be. 
Naught such is my skill, I wis, 
As indeed thou deem'sl it is ; 
But whate'er it be, I must 
Be content, and shall I trust. 
For a song I do not pass 
'Mongst my friends : but what, alas ! 
Should I have to do with them 
That my music do contemn i 
Some there are, as well I wot, 
That the same yet favor not ; 
Yet I cannot well avow 
They my carols disallow ; 
But such malice I have spied, 
'Tis as much as if they did. 

PHILARETE. 

Willy I what may those men be 
Are so ill to malice thee f 

WILLY. 

Some are worthy-well esteemed ; 
Some without worth, are so deemed ; 
Others of so base a spirit 
They have nor esteem nor merit. 

PHILARETE. 

TiMiat 's the wrong ? . . . . 



682 



P0E3IS OF SEyTIMEXT AXD REFLECTION. 



WILLY, 



A slight ofience, 

Wherewithal I can dispense ; 
But hereafter, for their sake, 
To myself I'll music make. 



PHILARETE. 

What, because some clown offends, 
Wilt thou punish all thy friends f 

WILLY. 

Do not, Phil ! misunderstand me — 
Those that love me may command me ; 
But thou know'st I am but young, 
And the pastoral I sung 
Is by some supposed to be. 
By a strain, too high for me ; 
So they kindly let me gain 
Not my labor for my pain. 
Trust me, I do wonder why 
They should me my own deny. 
Though I'm young, 1 scorn to flit 
On the wings of borrowed wit ; 
I'll make my own feathers rear me, 
Whither others cannot bear me. 
Yet I'll keep my skill in store, 
Till I've seen some winters more. 

PHILARETE. 

But in earnest mean'st thou so ? — 
Then thou art not wise, I trow : 
Better shall advise thee Pan, 
For thou dost not rightly then ; 
That 's the ready way to blot 
All the credit thou hast got. 
Rather in thy age's prime 
Get another start of time ; 
And make those that so fond be, 
Spite of their own dulness, see 
That the sacred muses can 
Make a child in years a man. 
It is known what thou canst do ; 
For it is not long ago, 
When that Cuddy, thou and I, 
Each the other's skill to try. 
At Saint Dunstan's charmed well, 
As some present there can tell, 
Sang upon a sudden theme. 



Sitting by the crimson stream ; 

Where if thou didst well or no 

Yet remains the song to show. 

Much experience more I've had 

Of thy skill, thou happy lad ; 

And would make the world to know it. 

But that time will further show it. 

En\'y makes their tongues now run. 

More than doubt of what is done ; 

For that needs must be thine own, 

Or to be some other's known ; 

But how then will 't suit unto 

What thou shalt hereafter do ? 

Or I wonder where is he 

Would with that song part with thee ! 

Nay, were there so mad a swain 

Could such glory sell for gain, 

Phoebus would not have combined 

That gift with so base a mind. 

Never did the nine impart 

The sweet secrets of their art 

Unto any that did scorn 

We should see their favors worn. 

Therefore, unto those that say 

Were they pleased to sing a lay 

They could do 't, and will not tho', 

This I speak, for this I know — 

None e'er drank the Thespian spring, 

And knew how, but he did sing ; 

For, that once infused in man, 

Makes him shew 't, do what he can ; 

Nay, those that do only sip. 

Or but e'en their fingers dip 

In that sacred fount, poor elves ! 

Of that brood will show themselves. 

Yea, in hope to get them fame, 

They will speak, though to their shame. 

Let those, then, at thee repine 

That by their wits measure thine ; 

Needs those songs must be thine own. 

And that one day will be known. 

That poor imputation, too, 

I myself do undergo ; 

But it will appear, ere long. 

That 'twas envy sought our M-rong, 

Who, at twice ten, have sung more 

Than some will do at four score. 

Cheer thee, honest Willy ! then. 

And begin thy song again. 



THE SHEPHERD'S HUJSTING. 683 


WILLY. 


ller short wings were dipt of late ; 


Fain 1 would ; but I do fear, 
When again my lines they hear, 
If they yield they are my rhymes, 
They will feign some other crimes ; 
And 'tis no safe venturing by 
Where we see detraction lie ; 
For, do what I can, I doubt 
She will pick some quarrel out ; 
And I oft have heard defended 
Little said is soon amended. 


And poor I, her fortune ruing. 
And myself put up a-mewing. 
But if 1 my cage can rid, 
I'll fly where I never did ; 
And though for her sake I'm crost, 
Though my best hopes I have lost. 
And knew she would make ray trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double, 
I should lofe and keep her too, 
'Spite of all the world could do. 
For, though banished from my flocks. 


PHILARETE. 


And confined within these rocks, 
Here I waste away the light, 


See'st thou not, in clearest days 


And consume the sullen night, 


Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays ? 


She doth for my comfort stay. 


And that vapors, which do breathe 


And keeps many cares away. 


From the earth's gross womb beneath 


Though I miss the flow'ry fields. 


Seem unto us with black steams 


With those sweets the spring-tide yields — 


To pollute the sun's bright beams — 


Though I may not see these groves 


And yet vanish into air, 


Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, 


Leaving it, unblemished, fair? 


And the lasses more excel 


So, my Willy, shall it be 


Than the sweet-voiced Philomel — 


With detraction's breath on thee — 


Though of all those pleasures past 


It shall never rise so high 


Nothing now remains at last 


As to stain thy poesy. 


But remembrance, poor relief. 


As that sun doth oft exhale 


That more makes than mends my grief — 


Vapors from each rotten vale, 


She's my mind's companion still, 


Poesy so sometimes drains 


Maugre envy's evil will ; 


Gross conceits from muddy brains — 


"Whence she should be driven too. 


Mists of envy, fogs of spite. 


Were 't in mortal's power to do. 


'Twixt men's judgments and her light ; 


She doth tell me whore to borrov/ 


But so much her power may do 


Comfort in the midst of sorrow, 


That she can dissolve them too. 


Makes the desolatest place 


If thy verse do bravely tower. 


To her presence be a grace. 


As she makes wing she gets power ; 


And the blackest discontents 


Yet the higher she doth soar 


To be pleasing ornaments. 


She 's affronted still the more. 


In my former days of bliss 


Till she to the high'st hath past, 


Her divine skill taught me this — 


Then she rests with fame at last. 


That from every thing I saw 


Let naught, therefore, thee affright, 


I could some invention draw. 


But make forward in thy flight. 


And raise pleasure to her lieigiit 


For, if I could match thy rhyme, 


Through the meanest object's sight ; 


To the very stars I'd climb ; 


By the murmur of a spring. 


There begin again, and fly 


Or the least bough's rusteling — 


Till I reached eternity. 


By a daisy, whose leaves, s|)read, 


But, alas ! mv muse is slow — 


Shut when Titan goes to bed — 


For thy place she flags too low ; 


Or a shady bush or tree. 


Yea — the raore's her hapless fate — 


She could more infuse in me 



684 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Than all nature's beauties can 

In some other wiser man. 

By her help I also now 

Make this churlish place allow 

Some things that may sweeten gladness 

In the very gall of sadness : 

The dull loneness, the black shade 

That these hanging-vaults have made ; 

The strange music of the waves, 

Beating on these hollow caves ; 

This black den, which rocks emboss, 

Overgrown with eldest moss ; 

The rude portals that give light 

More to terror than delight ; 

This my chamber of neglect, 

Walled about with disrespect ; — 

From all these, and this dull air, 

A fit object for despair, 

She hath taught me, by her might, 

To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 

I will cherish thee for this. 

Poesy, thou sweet'st content 

That e'er heaven to mortals lent ! 

Though they as a trifle leave thee 

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee- 

Though thou be to them a scorn 

That to naught but earth are born — 

Let my life no longer be 

Than I am in love with thee ; 

Though our wise ones call thee madness, 

Let me never taste of gladness 

If I love not thy madd'st fits 

More than all their greatest wits ; 

And though some, too seeming holy, 

Do account thy raptures folly. 

Thou dost teach me to contemn 

What makes knaves and fools of them. 

high power ! that oft doth carry 
Men above 

WILLY. 

. . . . Good Philarete, tarry ! 

1 do fear thou wilt be gone 
Quite above my reach anon. 
The kiMd flames of poesy 

Have now borne thy thoughts so high 
That they up in heaven be. 
And have quite forgotten me. 



Call thyself to mind again — 
Are these raptures for a swain 
That attends on lowly sheep. 
And with simple herds doth keep ? 

PHILARETE. 

Thanks, my Willy ! I had run 

Till that time had lodged the sun, 

If thou hadst not made me stay ; 

But thy pardon here 1 pray ; 

Loved Apollo's sacred sire 

Had raised up my spirits higher, 

Through the love of poesy. 

Than indeed they use to fly. 

But as I said I say still — 

If that I had Willy's skill. 

Envy nor detraction's tongue 

Should e'er make me leave my song; 

But I'd sing it every day. 

Till they pined themselves away. 

Be thou then advised in this. 

Which both just and fitting is — 

Finish what thou hast begun. 

Or at least still forward run. 

Hail and thunder ill he'll bear 

That a blast of wind doth fear ; 

And if words will thus affray thee, 

Prythee how will deeds dismay thee ? 

Do not think so rathe a song 

Can pass through the vulgar throng, 

And escape without a touch — 

Or that they can hurt it much. 

Frosts we see do nip that thing 

Which is forward'st in the spring ; 

Yet at last, for all such lets. 

Somewhat of the rest it gets ; 

And I'm sure that so mayst thou. 

Therefore, my kind Willy, now. 

Since thy folding-time draws on. 

And I see thou must be gone. 

Thee I earnestly beseech 

To remember this my speech, 

And some little counsel take. 

For Philarete his sake ; 

And I more of this will say. 

If thou come next holiday. 

George Wither. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 



685 



Cotopcr's (6raoc. 

I will invite thee, from thy envious hearse 

To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread, 

That we may see there 's brightness in the dead. 

Harrington. 

It is a place where poets crowned 

May feel the heart's decaying — 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying ; 
Yet let the grief and humbleness. 

As low as silence, languish — 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 

poets ! from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing ! 
Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging ! 
men ! this man, in brotherhood, 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while ye were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story — 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory — 
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed, 
He wore no less a loving face, 

Because so broken-hearted — 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken — 
Xamed softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness, 

On God whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suflFered once the madness-cloud 

Toward his love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 



And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing. 
Its women and its men became. 

Beside him, true and loving! 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses. 

But while in blindness he remained 

Unconscious of the guiding. 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy, 

When only God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses. 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

" My mother ! where "s my mother f " — 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from any other — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

Th' unweary love she bore him ! 
Thus woke the poet from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep, pathetic eyes 

Which closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ! oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of seraphs, round him breaking — 



686 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 


Or felt the new immortal throb 


There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek. 


Of soul from body parted ; 


• I sat and eyed the spewing reek. 


But felt those eyes alone, and knew 


That filled, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 


" My Saviour ! not deserted ! " 


The auld clay biggin ; 




An' heard the restless rattons squeak 


Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 


About the riggin'. 


The cross in darkness rested, 


Upon the victim's hidden face 


All in this mottie, misty clime. 


No love was manifested ? 


I backward mused on wasted time — 


What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 


How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 


The atoning drops averted, 


An' done nae thing 


What tears have washed them from the soul, 


But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 


That one should be deserted f 


, For fools to sing. 


Deserted ! God could separate 


Had I to guid advice but harkit. 


From His own essence rather ; 


I might, by this, hae led a market. 


And Adam's sins have swept between 


Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 


The righteous Son and Father ; 


My cash-account ; 


Yea ! once, Immanuel's orphaned cry 


While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 


His universe hath shaken — 


Is a' th' amount. 


It went up single, echoless, 




" My God, I am forsaken ! " 


I started, muttering, *' blockhead ! coof ! " 




And heaved on high my waukit loof. 


It went up from the holy lips 


To swear by a' yon starry roof. 


Amid His lost creation, 


Or some rash aith, 


That of the lost no son should use 


That I, henceforth, would be rhvme proof 


Those words of desolation ; 


Till ray last breath — 


That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 


« 


Should mar not hope's fruition ; 


When click ! the string the snick did draw ; 


And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 


And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 


His rapture, in a vision ! 


An' by my ingle lowe I saw. 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


Now bleezin' bright. 




A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 




Come full in sight. 


2:i)c bision. 


Ye need na doubt I held my whist — 


DUAN FIRST. 


The infant aith, half-formed, was crasht. 




I glowered as eerie 's I'd been dush't 


The sun had closed the winter day. 


In some wild glen, 


The curlers quat their roaring play. 


When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 


An' hungered maukin ta'en her way 


And stepped ben. 


To kail-yards green. 




While faithless snaws ilk step betray 


Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 


Whar she has been. 


Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 




I took her for some Scottish muse 


The thresher's weary flingin-tree 


By that same token. 


The lee-lang day had tired me ; 


An' come to stop those reckless vows, 


And whan the day had closed his ee, 


1 ' 

Wou'd soon been broken. 


Far i' the west, 




Ben i' the spence right pensivelie 


A " hair-brained sentimental trace " 


I gaed to rest. 


Was strongly marked in her face ; 



THE VISION. 



687 



A wildy-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev"n turned on empty space, 

Beamed keen with honor. 

Down flowed her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! — my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Xane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seemed, to my astonished view, 

A well-known land. 

Here rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here tumbling billows marked the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There distant shone art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods ; 
There well-fed Irwine stately thuds; 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient borough reared her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polished grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seemed to muse — some seemed to dare 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race heroic wheel. 



And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdv blows ; 
While back-recoiling seemed to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 

His countr}''s saviour, mark him well I 
Bold Hichardton's heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid, 
I marked a martial race, portrayed 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed, 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild, romantic grove. 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love), 

In musing mood. 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned sire and son I saw : 
To nature's God and nature's law 

They gave their lore ; 
This, all its source and end to draw — 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward I well could spy 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye, 
Who called on fame, low standing by 

To hand him on 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonished stare, 
I viewed the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When, with an elder sister's air, 

She did me greet : — 



688 P0E3IS OF SEXTUIENT AXD REFLECTION. 


All hail I my own inspired bard, 


When yellow waves the heavy grain. 


In me thy native muse regard ; 


The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 


Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 


Some teach to meliorate the plain 


Thus poorly low ! 


With tillage skill ; 


I come to give thee such reward 


And some instruct the shepherd train, 


As we bestow. 


Blithe o'er the hill. 


Know the great genius of this land 


Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 


Has many a light aerial band. 


Some grace the maiden's artless smile : 


Who, all beneath his high command, 


Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil 


Harmoniously, 


For humble gains, 


As arts or arms they understand, 


And make his cottage-scenes beguile 


Their labors ply. 


His cares and pains. 


They Scotia's race among them share : 


Some, bounded to a district-space, 


Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 


Explore at large man's infant race, 


Some rouse the patriot up to bare 


To mark the embryotic trace. 


Corruption's heart ; 


Of rustic bard ; 


Some teach the bard, a darling care. 


And careful note each op'ning grace — 


The tuneful art. 


A guide and guard. 


'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore 


Of these am I — Coila my name; 


They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 


And this district as mine I claim. 


Or 'mid the venal senate's roar 


Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 


They, sightless, stand. 


Held ruling pow'r ; 


To mend the honest patriot lore, 


I marked thy embryo tuneful flame, 


And grace the land. 


Thy natal hour. 


And when the bard, or hoary sage, 


With future hope I oft would gaze, 


Charm or instruct the future age, 


Fond, on thy little early ways, 


They bind the wild poetic rage 


Thy rudely carolled, chiming phrase 


In energy. 


In uncouth rhymes. 


Or point the inconclusive page 


Fired at the simple artless lays 


Full on the eye. 


Of other times. 


Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 


I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 


Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 


Delighted with the dashing roar ; 


Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 


Or when the North his fleecy store 


His minstrel lays ; 


Drove through the sky, 


Or tore, with noble ardor stung, 


I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 


The skeptic's bays. 


Struck thy young eye. 


To lower orders are assigned 


Or when the deep green-mantled earth 


The humbler ranks of human kind : 


Warm cherished every flow'ret's birth, 


The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 


And joy and music pouring forth 


The artisan — 


In every gro\ e. 


All choose, as various they 're inclined, 


I saw thee eye the general mirth 


The various man. 


With boundless love. 



I 



ON TUB DA' A Til OF BU.RNS. 689 


When ripened fields and aznre skies 


To give my counsels all in one — 


Called forth the reapers' rustling noise, 


Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 


I saw thee leave their evening joys, 


Preserve the dignity of man. 


And lonely stalk 


With soul erect ; 


To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 


And trust the universal plan 


In pensive walk. 


Will all protect. 


When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 


And wear thou this !^she solemn said, 


Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 


And bound the holly round my head ; 


Those accents grateful to thy tongue, 


The polished leaves and berries red 


Th' adored name. 


Did rustling play — 


I taught thee how to pour in song, 


And, like a passing thought, she fled 


To soothe thy flame. 


In light away. 




Robert Burns. 


I saw thy pulse's maddening play 




Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 




Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 


©n tl)c Dcntl) of Duvns. 


By p i.ssion driven ; 




But yet the light that led astray 


Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 


Was light from heaven. 


Thy sheltered valleys proudly sjiread — 




And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 


I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
Thi loves, the ways of simple swains — 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends, 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breathed the soothing strain f 


Become thy friends. 




V 


As green thy towering pines may grow. 


Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 


As clear thy streams may speed along. 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

As gayly charm thy feathery throng ; 
But now unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around — 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that waked its sinmd. 


Yet all beneath th' unrivalled rose 


WTiat though thy vigorous offsjjring rise — 


The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 


In arts, in arms, thy sons excvl ; 


Though large the forest's monarch throws 


Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 


His army shade, 


And health in every feature dwell ; 


Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 


Yet who shall now their praises toll 


Adown the glade. 


In strains impassioned, fond, and free. 




Since he no more the song shall swell 


Then never munnur nor repine ; 


To love, and lilx?rty, and thoo ! 


Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 




And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 


With step-dame eye and fmwn severe 


Xor kings' regard. 


His hapless youth why didst tliou view? 


Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine. 


For all thy joys to him were dear. 


A rustic bard. 


And all his vows to thee were due ; 


46 


1 



690 P0E3IS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION. 


Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 


Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. 


In opening vouth's delightful prime, 


Expanding ail the bloom of soul ; 


Than when thy fayoring ear he drew 


And Mirth concentre all her rays, 


To listen to his chanted rhvme. 


And point them from the spai'kling bowl ; 




And let the careless moments roll 


Thy lonely wastes and frovsning skies 


In social pleasui'es unconfined, 


To him were all with raptui-e fraught ; 


And confidence that spurns control, 


He heard with joy the tempest rise 


Unlock the inmost springs of mind I 


That waked him to sublimer thought ; 




And oft thy winding dells he sought; 


And lead his steps those lx)wers among. 


Where wild flowers poured their rathe perfume. 


\V here elegance with splendor vies, 


And with sincere devotion brought 


Or Science bids her favored throng 


To thee the summers earliest bloom. 


To more refined sensations rise; 




Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 


But ah I no fond maternal smile 


And freed from each laborious strife, 


His unprotected youth enjoyed — 


There let him learn the bliss to prize 


Hi- limbs inured to earlv toiL 


That waits the sons of polished hfe. 


His days with early hardships tried I 




And more to mark the gloomy void. 


Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high 


And bid him feel his miseiy. 


With every impulse of dehght, 


Bef :>re his infant eyes would glide 


Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 


Day-dreams of immortality. 


And shroud the scene in shades of night : 




And let despair with wizard light 


Yet. not by cold neglect depressed. 


Disclose the vawning gulf below. 


With sinewy arm he turned the soil. 


And pom- incessant on his sight 


Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 


Her spectred ills and shapes of woe ; 


And met at morn his earliest smile. 




Waked by his rustic pipe meanwhile, 


And show beneath a cheerless shed. 


The powers of fancy came along. 


With soiTowing heart and streaming eyes. 


And soothed his lengthened hours of toU 


In silent grief where droops her head, 


With native wit and sprightly song. 


The partner of his early joys ; 




And let his infants' tender cries 


Ah I days of bliss too swiftly fled. 


• His fond parental succor claim, 


When vigorous health from labor springs. 


And bid him hear in agonies 


And bland contentment soothes the bed. 


A husband's and a father's name. 


And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 




And hovering round on airy wings 


*Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 


Float the light forms of young desire. 


His high reluctant spirit l^ends; 


That of unutterable things 


In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 


The soft and shadowy- hope inspire. 


Nor longer with his fate contends. 




An idiot laugh the welkin rends, 


Now spells of mightier power prepare — 


As genius thus degraded lies : 


Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 


Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 


Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 


That shrouds the poet's ardent eyes. 


And Fame attract his vagrant glance ; 




Let sprightly Pleasure too advance. 


Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 


Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her zone — 


Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread. 


Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 


And, Scotia, pour thv thousand riUs, 


He scorn the jovs his youth has known. 


And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 






BURNS. 



cm 



But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign ; 

Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead 
That ever breathed the soothing strain. 

Wqxiam Boscoe. 



Burns. 

No more these simple flowers belong 
To Scottish maid and lover — 

Sown in the common soil of song, 
They bloom the wide world over. 

In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, 
The minstrel and the heather — 

The deathless singer and the flowers 
He sang of — live together. 

Wild heather bells and Robert Burns ! 

The moorland flower and peasant'! 
How, at their mention, memory turns 

Her pages old and pleasant ! 

The gray sky wears again its gold 

And purple of adorning. 
And manhood's noonday shadows hold 

The dews of boyhood's morning — 

The dews that washed the dust and soil 
From ofif the wings of pleasure — 

The sky that flecked the ground of toil 
With golden threads of leisure. 

I call to mind the summer day — 

The early harvest mowing. 
The sky with sun and cloud at play. 

And flowers with breezes blowing. 

I hear the blackbird in the com, 

The locust in the haying : 
And. like the fabled hunter's horn, 

Old tunes my heart is playing. 

How oft that day, with fond delay, 
I sought the maple's shadow, 

And sang with Burns the hours away, 
Forgetful of the meadow ! 



Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead 

I heard the squirrels leaping ; 
The good dog listened while I read, 

And wagged his tail in keeping. 

I watched him while in sportive mood 
I read ''The Twa Dogs'" story, 

And half believe he imderstood 
The poet's allegory. 

Sweet day, sweet songs ! The golden hours 
Grew brighter for that singing. 

From brook and bird and meadow flowers 
A dearer welcome bringing. 

New light on home-seen nature beamed, 

New glory over woman ; 
And daily life and duty seemed 

No longer poor and common. 

I woke to find the simple truth 

Of fact and feeling better 
Than all the dreams that held ray yputh 

A still repining debtor — 

That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, 
The themes of sweet discoursing. 

The tender idyls of the heart 
In every tongue rehearsing. 

Why dream of lands of gold and pearl. 

Of loving knight and lady. 
When farmer boy and barefoot girl 

Were wandering there already ? 

I saw through all familiar things 

The romance underlying — 
The joys and griefs that plume the wings 

Of fancy skyward flying. 

1 saw the same blithe day return, 

The same sweet fall of even, 
That rose on wooded C'raigie-burn, 

And sank on crystal Devon. 

1 matched with Scotland's heathery hills 
The sweet-brier and the clover — 

With Ayr and Do(»n my native rills. 
Their wood-hvmns chanting over. 



1 

693 FOFJIS OF SFXTIJIFXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 


O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, 


Grive lettered pomp to teeth of time, 


I saw the man uprising — 


So " Bonnie Doon " but tarry ; 


Xo longer common or unclean, 


Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, 


The child of God's baptizing. 


But spare his '• Highland Mary." 




John Gkeexleaf Whittier. 


With clearer eyes I saw the worth 




Of life among the lowly ; 




The bible at his cotter's hearth 




Had made my own more holy. 


0n first Cooking into Ctjapmans 




^omcr. 


And if at times an evil strain, 




To lawless love appealing. 


Much have I travelled in the reahns of gold, 


Broke in upon the sweet refrain 


And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 


Of pure and healthful feeling, 


Round many western islands have I been 




Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 


It died upon the eye and ear, 


Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 


Xo inward answer gaining ; 


That deep-browed Homer ruled as his de- 


Xo heart had I to see or hear 


mesne ; 


The discord and the staining. 


Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 




Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 


Let those who never erred forget 


bold: 


His worth, in vain bewailings ; 


Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 


Sweet soul of song ! I own my debt 


When a new planet swims into his ken ; 


Uncancelled by his failings ! 


Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 




He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 


Lament who will the ribald line 


Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 


Which tells his lapse from duty — 


Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 


How kissed the maddening lips of wine, 


JoHX Keats. 


Or wanton ones of beauty — 




But think, while falls that shade between 


miiianb. 


The erring one and heaven. 




That he who loved like Magdalen, 


It is the poet TThland, from whose wreathings 


Like her may be forgiven. 


Of rarest harmony I here have drawn, 




To lower tones and less melodious breathings. 


Not his the song whose thunderous chime 


Some simple strains, of youth and passion 


Eternal echoes render — 


born. 


The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, 




And Milton's starry splendor ; 


His is the poetry of sweet expression — 




Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong — 


But who his human heart has laid 


Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft proces- 


To nature's bosom nearer? 


sion, 


Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 


Move to the even measures of his song. 


To love a tribute dearer ? 






Delighting ever in his own calm fancies, 


Through all his tuneful art how strong 


He sees much beauty where most men see 


The human feeling gushes ! 


naught — 


The very moonlight of his song 


Looking at nature with familiar glances, 


Is warm with smiles and blushes. 


And weaving garlands in the groves of thought. 



SONNET. 693 


He sings of youth, and hope, and high endeavor ; 




He sings of love — oh crown of poesy ! — 


Gonnct. 


Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave — forever 




The end of strife, the goal of destiny. 


The nightingale is mute — and so art thou. 




Whose voice is sweeter than the nightingale; 


He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory — 


While every idle scholar makes a vow 


High theme of memory and hope divine — 


Above thy worth and glory to prevail. 


Twining its fame with gems of antique story, 




In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine ; 


Yet shall not envy to that level bring 




The true precedence which is born in thee ; 


In ballads breathing many a dim tradition, 


Thou art no less the prophet of the spring. 


Nourished in long belief or minstrel rhymes, 


Though in the woods thy voice now silent be. 


Fruit of the old romance, whose gentle mission 




Passed from the earth before our wiser times. 


For silence may impair but cannot kill 




The music that is native to thy soul : 


Well do they know his name among the moun- 


Xor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will, 


tains, 


Upon thy purest honor have control ; 


And plains and valleys, of his native land ; 


But, since thou wilt not to our wishes sing. 


Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains 


This truth I speak : thou art of poets king. 


Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies 


Lord Thurlow. 


spanned. 




His simple lays oft sings the mother, cheerful, 


Cliavabc. 


Beside the cradle in the dim twilight ; 


His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden, tear- 


Come from my first, ay, come ! 


ful, 


The battle dawn is nigh ; 


With tender murmurs in the ear of night. 


And the screaming trump and the thundering 




drum 


The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows, 


Are calling thee to die ! 


Carol his ditties through the toilsome day ; 




And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows 


Fight as thy father fought ; 


Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray. 


Fall as thy father fell : 




Thy task is tauglit : thy shroud is wrought ; 


Oh precious gift ! oh wondrous inspiration ! 


So forward and farewell ! 


Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things, 




To be the oracle, while a whole nation 


Toll ye my second I toll ! 


Catches the echo from the sounding strings ! 


Fling high the flambeau's light : 




And sing the hymn for a parted soul 


Out of the depths of feeling and emotion 


Beneath the silent night ! 


Rises the orb of song, serenely bright — 




As who lx}holds, across the tracts of ocean. 


The wreath upon his head. 


The golden sunrise bursting into light. 


The cross upon his breast. 




Let tlie prayer be said, and the tear be ^hod. 


Wide is its magic world, divided neither 


So,— take him to his rest ! 


By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone : 




Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither. 


Call yo my wliolo. ny. call 


In fancied fortunes to forget his own ? 


The lord of lute and lay : 


William Allen Butler. 


And lot him greet the sable pall 




With a iu>ble song to-day : 



r 

694 POEJIS OF SEyTUIEXT AXD BEFLECTIOS. 


Go. call him by his name ! 


But divine, melodious truth — 


Xo fitter hand may crave 


Philosophic numbers smooth — 


To light the flame of a soldier's fame 


Tales and golden histories 


On the turf of a soldier's grave. 


Of heaven and its mysteries. 


Wi>-THROP Mackwoeth Peaed. 


Thus ye live on high, and then 




On the earth ye live again ; 


^0 illacanlag. 


And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us here the way to find you. 


The dreamy rhymers measured snore 

Falls heavy on our ears no more : 

And by long strides are left behind 

The dear delights of womankind, 

Who wage their battles like their loves, 

In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 

And have achieved the crowning work 

When they have trussed and skewered a Turk. 

Another comes with stouter tread. 

And stalks among the statelier dead : 


Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumbering, never cloying. 
Here your eaith-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us. every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 


He rushes on. and hails by turns 
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; 
And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 


Bards of passion and of mirth. 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

JoHX Keats. 


Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 




Walter Savage La>"dok. 






(TIlc illinstrcl. 


0>bc. 


" VV HAT voice, what harp, are those we hear 




Beyond the gate in chorus ? 


Bards of passion and of mirth. 


Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear ; 


Ye have left your souls on earth ! 


We'll have it sung before us I " 


Have ye souls in heaven too, 


So speaks the king : the stripling flies — 


Double-lived in regions new ? 


He soon returns : his master cries. 


Yes. and those of heaven commune 


" Bring in the hoary minstrel I " 


With the sphj?res of sun and moon ; 




With the noise of fountains wondrous, 


" Hail, princes mine ! Hail, noble knights ! 


And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 


All hail, enchanting dames I 


With the whisper of heaven's trees 


What starry heaven I What blinding lights ! 


And one another, in soft ease 


Whose tongue may tell their names? 


Seated on Elysian lawns 


In this bright hall, amid this blaze, 


Browsed l)y none but Dian's fawns ; 


Close, close, mine eyes I Ye may not gaze 


Underneath large blue-bells tented, 


On such stupendous glories ! " 


Where the daisies are rose-scented. 




And the rose herself has got 


The minnesinger closed his eyes ; 


Perfume which on earth is not ; 


He struck his mighty lyre : 


Where the nightingale doth sing 


Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, 


Xot a senseless, tranced thing. 


And warriors felt on fire ; 



.t POET'S THOUGHT. 



605 



The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 
Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold. 
For those brave knights whose glances, 

Fierce flashing through the battle bold, 
Might shiver sharpest lances ! 

Bestow it on thy treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 

The cageless wild-bird carols ; 
The tones that from the full heart gush 

Themselves are gold and laurels ! 
Yet might I ask, then thus I ask. 
Let one bright cup of wine, in flask 

Of glowing gold, be brought me ! " 

They set it down ; he quaffs it all — 
'• Oh ! draught of richest flavor ! 

Oh ! thrice divinely happy hall 
Where that is scarce a favor ! 

If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me ; 

And thank your God as I thank ye 
For this delicious wine-cup ! " 

JoHAXN Wolfgang von Goethe. (German.) 
Translation of James Clarence Mangan. 



Sonnet. 

Who best can paint th' enamelled robe of spring, 

With flow'rets and fair blossoms well bedight ; 
Who best can her melodious accents sing. 

With which she greets the soft return of light ; 
Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage. 

And make th' imperial arch of heav'n to groan — 
Breed warfare with the winds, and finely wage 

Great strife with Xeptune on his rocky throne — 
Or lose us in those sad and mournful days 

With which pale autumn crowns the misty year, 
Sliall l)oar the prize, and in his true essays 

A poet in our awful eyes appear ; 
For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile, 
Gold, praise, and woman's thrice-endearing smile. 

Lord Thurlow. 



^ Pocfs (Tlionglit. 

Tell me, what is a poet's thought ? 

Is it on the sudden born ? 
Is it from the starlight caught ? 
Is it by the tempest taught ? 

Or by whispering morn ? 

Was it cradled in the brain f 
Chained awhile, or nursed in night ? 

Was it wrought with toil and pain ? 

Did it bloom and fade again, 
Ere it burst to light ? 

No more question of its birth : 

Rather love its better part ! 
'Tis a thing of sky and earth. 
Gathering all its golden worth 

From the poet's heart. 

Barry Cornwall. 



Ucsolution anb Snbcpcniicncc. 

There was a roaring in the wind all night — 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 

But now the sun is rising calm and bright — 
The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ; 

The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters; 

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of 
waters. 

All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth : 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors 

The hare is running races in her mirth ; 

And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
Raises a mist that, glittering in the sun. 
Runs with her all the way. wherever she doth run. 

I was a traveller then upon the moor : 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy : 

I heard the woods and distant waters roar — 
Or heard them not. as hap})y as a boy. 
The pleasant season did my heart employ ; 

My old remembrances went from me wholly — 

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 



696 



P0E3IS OF SEXTIMEXT AXD REFLECTION, 



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 

As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low — 
To me that morning did it happen so ; 

And fears and fancies thick upon me came — 

Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor 
could name. 

I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 

And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
Even such a happy child of earth am I ; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 

Far from the world I walk, and from all care. 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought. 
As if life's business were a summer mood — 

As if all needful things would come unsought 
To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
But how can he expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride : 

Of him who walked in glory and in joy, 
Following his plough, along the mountain-side. 
By our own spirits we are deified : 

We poets in our youth begin in gladness. 

But thereof come in the end despondency and mad- 
ness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something given, 

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place, 
Wlien I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 

I saw a man before me unawares — 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray 
hairs. 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 

Wonder to all who do the same espy 

By wluit means it could hither come, and whence ; 
So tliat it seems a thing endued with sense — 

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself — 



Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead, 
Xor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 

His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage. 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 

Of sickness, felt by him in times long past, 

A more than human weight upon his frame had 
cast. 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Lpon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 

And still, as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood. 
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood. 

That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 

And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 

Upon that muddy water, which he conned 
As if he had been reading in a book. 
And now a stranger's privilege T took ; 

And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 

" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

A gentle answer did the old man make. 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ; 

And him with further words I thus bespake : 
" What occupation do you there pursue ? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest ; 

But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 
Choice word and measured phrase, above the 

reach 
Of ordinary men, a stately speech, 
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use — 
Religious men, who give to God and man their 
dues. 

He told that to these waters he had come 
" To gather leeches, being old and poor — 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
And he had many hardships to endure ; 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to 
moor — 



\ 



J 



] 



ODE OJS A GRECIAN URN. 



697 



Housing, with God's good help, by choi«e or 
chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest mainte- 
nance. 

The old man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 

Scarce heard, nor word from word could I divide ; 
And the whole body of the man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream — 

Or like a man from some far region sent 

To give me human strength by apt admonish- 
ment. 

My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills, 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 

Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 
And mighty poets in their misery dead. 
Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 

My question eagerly did 1 renew — 

" How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? " 

He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 

And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled, stirring thus about his feet 

The waters of the pools where they abide. 

" Once I could meet with them on every side, 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place. 

The old man's shape and speech — all troubled 
me; 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually, 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pursued. 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse re- 
newed. 

And soon with this he other matter blended — 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind. 

But stately in the main ; and when ho ended 
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find 
In that decrepit man so firm a mind. 

" God," said I. " be my help and stay secure ; 

I'll think of the leech -gatherer on the lonely 

moor ! " 

William Wordsworth. 



©J^e on a (Grecian Urn. 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme ! 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these i what maidens 
loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? Wh.'it struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels f What wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on — 
Not to the sensual ear, but more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare : 
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal ; yet do not grieve — 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy 
bliss ; 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu : 
And happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new : 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed. 
For ever panting and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead and a jiarching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice f 

To what green altar, mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drestf 
What little town by rivor or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious mornf 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 
Whv thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



698 POEMS OF SENTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION. 


Attic shape ! Fair attitude I with brede 


1 
But come, thou goddess fair and free, 


Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 


In heav'n y-cleped Euphrosyne, 


With forest branches and the trodden weed ! 


And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ! 


Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought, 


Whom lovely Venus, at a birth 


As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! 


With two sister graces more, 


When old age shall this generation waste. 


To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 


Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 


Or whether (as some sages sing) 


Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st 


The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 


" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 


Zephyr, with Aurora playing — 


Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 


As he met her once a-Maying — 


John Keats. 


There, on beds of violets blue 




And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 




Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 


(Jlie ittcans to Attain ^appg £ife. 


So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 


Martial, the things that do attain 


Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 


The happy life be these, I find — 


Jest, and youthful jollity — 


The riches left, not got with pain ; 


Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. 


The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. 


Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 


The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 

No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
Without disease, the healthful life ; 

The household of continuance ; 


Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek — 
Sport, that wrinkled care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come ! and trip it, as you go, 


The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 

True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 
The night discharged of all care. 

Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 


On the light fantastic toe j 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 


The faithful wife, without debate ; 


To live with her, and live with thee. 


Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 


In unreproved pleasures free — 


Contented with thine own estate. 


To hear the lark begin his flight, 


Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 


And singing startle the dull night 


Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 


From his watch-tow'r in the skies, • 




Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 




Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 


rOVllcgro. 


And at my window bid good-morrow. 
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 


Hence, loathed Melancholy, 


Or the twisted eglantine ; 


Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born ! 


While the cock with lively din 


In Stygian cave forlorn, 


Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 


'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un- 


And to the stack, or the barn-door, 


holy. 


Stoutly struts his dames before : 


Find out some uncouth cell, 


Oft listening how the hounds and horn 


Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings. 


Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. 


And the night-raven sings ; 


From the side of some hoar hill 


There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks. 


Through the high wood echoing shrill ; 


As ragged as thy locks. 


Sometime walking, not unseen. 


In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 


By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 



L' ALLEGRO. 



699 



Right atjraiiist the eastern gate. 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and aml:)er light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Wliere the nibbling flocks do stray — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
Where p)erhaps some beauty lies, 
The cvnosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes. 
^\liich the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves. 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
Or. if the earlier season lead. 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 
Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite, 
When the mern' bells ring round. 
And the jocund rel)ecks sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid, 
Dancing in the chequered shad ■ : 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday. 
Till the live-long daylight fail: 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale 
With stories told of many a feat : 
How fairy Mab the junkets eat — 
She was pinched and pulled, she said. 
And he by friar's lantern led ; 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-lx)wl duly set. 



When in one night, ere glimpse of mom. 
His shadowy flail hath threshed the com 
That ten day-laborers could not end ; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend. 
And stretched out all the chimney's length. 
Basks at the fire his hair}' strength. 
And. crop-full, out of doors he flings 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hum of men. 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold — 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while lx>th contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask, and antique pageantry — 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream : 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's leametl sock ]>e on. 
Or sweetest Shakspeare. Fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony — 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 



700 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AXD REFLECTION, 




Spare fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 


%\ penscroso. 


And hears the muses in a ring 




Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 


Hence, vain deluding joys, 


And add to these retired leisure. 


The brood of folly without father bred ! 


That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 


How little you bestead, 


But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 


Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 


Him that yon soars on golden wing, 


Dwell in some idle brain, 


Guiding the fiery- wheeled throne — 


And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. 


The cherub Contemplation ; 


As thick and numberless 


And the mute silence hist along, 


As the gay motes that people the sunbeams — 


'Less Philomel will deign a song 


Or likest hovering dreams, 


In her sweetest, saddest plight. 


The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 


Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 


But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! 


While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 


Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 


Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 


Whose saintly visage is too bright 


Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly — 


To hit the sense of human sight. 


Most musical, most melancholy ! 


And therefore to our weaker view 


Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 


O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue — 


I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 


Black, but such as in esteem 


And, missing thee, I walk unseen 


Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 


On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 


Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 


To behold the wandering moon 


To set her beauty's praise above 


Riding near her highest noon. 


The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. 


Like one that had been led astray 


Yet thou art higher far descended ; 


Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 


Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 


And oft, as if her head she bowed, 


To solitary Saturn bore — 


Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 


His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 


Oft, on a plat of rising ground. 


Such mixture was not held a stain). 


I hear the far-off curfew sound 


Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 


Over some wide-watered shore. 


He met her, and in secret shades 


Swinging slow with sullen roar; 


Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 


Or if the air will not permit. 


While yet there was no fear of Jove. 


Some still removed place will fit. 




Where glowing embers through the room 


Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 


Teach light to counterfeit a gloom — 


Sober, steadfast, and demure, 


Far from all resort of mirth. 


All in a robe of darkest grain 


Save the cricket on the hearth. 


Flowing with majestic train. 


Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 


And sable stole of cypress lawn 


To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 


Over thy decent shoulders drawn ! 


Or let my lamp at midnight hour 


Come ! but keep thy wonted state, 


Be seen in some high lonely tower, 


With even step and nmsing gait. 


Where I may oft out-watch the bear 


And looks commercing with the skies, 


With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 


Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 


The spirit of Plato, to unfold 


There, held in holy passion still. 


What worlds or what vast regions hold 


Forget thyself to marble, till 


The immortal mind that hath forsook 


With a sad. leaden, downward cast 


Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 


Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 


And of those demons that are found 


And join with thee cahn peace, and quiet — 


In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 



I 

i 

i 



IL PENSEROSO. 



701 



Whose power hath a true consent 
With phinet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, oh, sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Mus»us from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold — 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife — 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass — 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride ! 
And, if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung — 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited mom appear — 
Not tricked and flounced, as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine or monumental oak, 
Wliere the rude axe with heaved stroke 
Was never heard the nymplis to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
There in close covert liy some brook. 
Where no profanor eye may look. 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honeyed thigh, 



That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring 

With such consort as they keep. 

Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings, in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displayed. 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 

And, as 1 wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale. 
And love the high embowed roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly dight, 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below. 
In service high, and anthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

John Milton. 



Sang. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content — 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angn- frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such 
bliss, 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 



702 POEMS OF SENTUIEXT AND REFLECTION. 


The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 


That can the great leviathan control, 


The cottage that affords no pride or care, 


Manage and rule it, as if he were its soul ; 


The mean that 'grees with country music best, 


The wisest king thus gifted was. 


The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare, 


And yet did not in these true wisdom place. 


Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 


Who then is by the wise man meant ? 


A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 


He that can want all this, and yet can be content. 


RoBEKT Greene. 


John Nokris. 


®l)e Hcplu. 


^ OTontcntcb illinb. 


Since you desire of me to know 


I WEIGH not fortune s frow n or smile ; 


Who's the wise man, I'll tell you who: 


I joy not much in earthly joys ; 


Xot he whose rich and fertile mind 


I seek not state, I reck not style ; 


Is by the culture of the arts refined ; 


I am not fond of fancy's toys : 


Who has the chaos of disordered thought 


I rest so pleased with what I have 


By reason's light to form and method brought ; 


I wish no more, no more I crave. 


Who with a clear and piercing sight 




Can see through niceties as dark as night — 


I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 


You err if you think this is he. 


I tremble not at noise of war ; 


Though seated on the top of the Porphyrian tree. 


I swound not at the news of wrack ; 




I shrink not at the blazing star ; 


Nor is it he to whom kind Heaven 


I fear not loss, I hope not gain. 


A secret cabala has given 


I envy none, I none disdain. 


To unriddle the mysterious text 




Of nature, with dark comments more perplext — 


I see ambition never pleased ; 


Or to decipher her clean-writ and fair. 


I see some Tantals starved in store ; 


But most confounding, puzzling character — 


I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 


That can through all her windings trace 


I see even Midas gape for more : 


This slippery wandei-er and unveil her face, 


1 neither want, nor yet abound — 


Her inmost mechanism view. 


Enough 's a feast, content is crowned. 


Anatomize each part, and see her through and 
through. 


I feign not friendship where I hate ; 


o 


I fawn not on the great, in show ; 


Nor he that does the science know — 


I prize, I praise a mean estate — 


Our only certainty below — 


Neither too lofty nor too low : 


That can from problems dark and nice 


This, this is all my choice, my cheer — 


Deduce truths worthy of a sacrifice. 


A mind content, a conscience clear. 


Nor he that can confess the stars, and see 


Joshua SYLVBSTaa. 


What's writ in the black leaves of destiny— 


• 


That knows their laws, and how the sun 




His daily and his annual stage does run, 


Song. \ 


As if he did to them dispense 


■^ 


Their motions and their fate — supreme intelligence ! 


What pleasure have great princes, 




More dainty to their choice 


Nor is it he (although he boast 


Than herdsmen wild, who, careless. 


Of wisdom, and seem wise to most,) 


In quiet life rejoice, 


Yet 'tis not he whose busy pate 


And fortune's fate not fearing. 


Can dive into the deep intrigues of state — 


Sing sweet in summer morning ? 



THE 


LYF. 703 

* 


Their dealings, plain and rightful, 


If potentates reply, 


Are void of all deceit ; 


Give potentates the lye. 


They never know how spiteful 




It is to feel and wait 


Tell men of high condition. 


On favorite presumptuous, 


That rule affairs of state, 


Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. 


Their purpose is ambition, 




Their practice only hate ; 


All days their flocks each tendeth : 


And if they once reply. 


All night they take their rest — 


Then give them all the lye. 


More quiet than who sendeth 




X 

His ship into the East, 


Tell them that brave it most 


Where gold and pearls are plenty, 


They beg for more by spending, 


But getting very dainty. 


Who in their greatest cost 




Seek notliing but commending ; 


For lawyers and their pleading. 


And if they make reply. 


Thev esteem it not a straw ; 


Spare not to give the lye. 


Thev think that honest meaning 




Is of itself a law ; 


Tell zeale it lacks devotion ; 


Where conscience judflreth plainly, 


Tell love it is but lust ; 


Thev spend no money vainly. 


Tell time it is but motion ; 


*r X * *> W 


Tell flesh it is but dust ; 


Oh happy who thus liveth, 


And wish them not reply, 


Not caring much for gold, 


For thou must give the lye. 


With clothing which sufficeth 




To keep him from the cold ; 
Though poor and plain his diet, 


Tell age it daily wasteth ; 


Tell honour how it alters ; 


Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 


Yet merrv it is and quiet. 




William Bved. 


Tell favour how she falters ; 




And as they then reply, 




Give each of them the lye. 


tlic £r)c. 


Tell wit how much it wrangles 




In tickle points of nicenesse ; 


GoE, soule, the bodie's guest, 


Tell wisedome she entangles 


Upon a thankk'sse arrant ; 


Herselfe in over wisenesse ; 


Feare not to touche the best — 


And if they doe rei)ly, 


The truth shall be thv warrant ; 


Straight give them both the lye. 


Goe, since I needs must dye, 




And give the world the lye. 


Tell physicke of her boldnesse ; 




Tell skill it is pretension ; 


Goe tell the court it glowes 


Tell charity of coldnesse ; 


And shines like rotten wood ; 


Tell law it is contention; 


Goe tell the church it showes 


And as they yield reply. 


What's good, and doth no good; 


So give them still the lye. 


If church and court reply, 




Then give them both the lye. 


Tell fortune of her blindnesse ; 




Tell nature of decay : 


Tell potentates they live 


Tell friendship of unkindnesse; 


Acting by others' actions — 


Tell justice of delay; 


Not loved unlesse they give, 


And if they dare reply. 


Not strong but by their factions ; 


Then give them all the lye. 



704 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Tell arts they have no soundnesse, 

But vary by esteeming ; 
Tell schooles they want profoiindnesse, 
And stand too much on seeming ; 
If arts and schooles reply, 
Give arts and schooles the lye. 

Tell faith it 's fled the citie ; 

Tell how the country erreth ; 
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie : 
Tell, vertue least preferreth ; 
And if they doe reply, 
Spare not to give the lye. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing — 
Although to give the lye 

Deserves no less than stabbing — - 
Yet stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soule can kill. 

SiK Walter Raleigh. 



(Jo X\)t t((h'Q illargarct, Coxtntess of 
(Eumbcrlanb. 

He that of such a height hath built his mind, 
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man sur- 
vey? 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil ? 
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
On flesh and blood, where honor, power, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 

But only as on stately robberies ; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 



Must be the right ; the ill-succeeding Mars 
The fairest and the "best faced enterprise. 
Great pirate Poifipey lesser pirates quails ; 
Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still 
Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. 

He sees the face of right to appear as manifold 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires, 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires : 
That the all-guiding providence doth yet 
All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. 

Xor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
Charged with more crying sins than those he 

checks. 
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times. 
Appall not him, that hath no side at all. 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 

Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon imbecility; 
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses 
And is encompassed ; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man. 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress, 
And the inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes ; he looks thereon, 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires, and sees all things 
Beneath him : and hath learned this book of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings ; 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 



TO THE LADY MARGARET. COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAyD. 



70.-) 



To plant your heart ; and set your thoughts as 

near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned 

By that clear judgment that hath carried you 

Beyond the feebler limits of your kind, 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; inured to any hue 

The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see 

Both what the best and worst of earth can be. 

Which makes that whatsoever here befalls, 
You in the region of yourself remain, 
Where no vain Vjreath of th' imp ident molests, 
That hath secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
Rises in peace, in innocency rests ; 
Whilst all what malice from without procures, 
Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge. 
Than women used to do ; yet you well know. 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned, 
Than being pursued ; leaving to him to avenge 
To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base malediction, living in the dark, 
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll : whero all the aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless fro redress ; 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! 

And how turmoiled they are that level lie 

With earth, and cannot lift themselves from 

thence ; 
That never are at peace with their desires. 
But work beyond tiieir years: and even deny 
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
With death : that when ability expires. 
Desire lives still — so much delight they have 
To carry toil and travel to tlie grave. 

47 



Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best 
They reach unto, when they have cast tlic sum 
And reckonings of their glory ? And you know. 
This floating life hath but this port of rest, 
A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come ; 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
The best of all whose days consumed are. 
Either in war, or peace conceiving war. 

This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind. 

Hath been so set by that all-working hand 

Of Heaven, that through the world hatli done his 

worst 
To put it out by discords most unkind, 
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man ; nor ever will be forced 
From that most sweet accord, but still agree, 
Equal in fortunes in equality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Remains recorded in so many hearts. 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right, 
In th' inheritance of fame you must possess : 
You that have built you by your great deserts 
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honored name 
Than all the gold that leaden mines can frame. 

Samuel Daniel. 



iXlrs iTlinbc to illc a liingbom is. 

My minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein 1 finde 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse 

That God or nature hath assignde : 
Though much 1 want, that most would have, 
Yet still my minde forbids to crave. 

Content I live; this is ray stay — 
1 seek no more than may suffice. 

I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 
Look, what I lack my minde sujiplies. 

Loe. thus I triumph like a king. 

Content with that my mindo doth bring. 

I see how plentie surfets oft. 

And hastie clymbers soonest fall; 

I see that such as sit ah^ft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all. 



706 



POEMS OF SEXTIMEXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 



These get with toile. and keepe with f eare ; 
Such cares my minde could never beare. 

Xo princely pompe nor wealthie store, 

Xo force to win the rictorie, 
Xo wyKe wit to salve a sore, 

Xo shape to winne a lovers eye — 
To none of these I yeeld as thrall ; 
For why, my minde despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more. 
They are but poore. though much they have 

And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich : they beg, I give; 
They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's losse, 
I grudge not at another's gaine : 

Xo worldly wave my minde can tosse ; 
1 brooke that is another's bane. 

I feare no foe. nor fawne on friend : 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthlv bKsse : 

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw ; 

For care, I care not what it is ; 
I feare not fortune's fatal law ; 

My minde is such as may not move 

For beautie bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to seek for more ; 
I like the plaine, I clime no hill : 

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, 
And laugh at them that toile in vaine 
To get what must be lost againe. 

I kisse not where I wish to kill : 

I feigne not love where most I hate ; 

I breake no sleepe to winne my will ; 
I wajiie not at the mightie's gate. 

I scome no poore. I feare no rich ; 

I feel no want, nor have too much. 

The court ne cart I like ne loath — 
Extrearaes are counted worst of all ; 

The golden meane betwixt them both 
Doth surest sit, and feares no fall ; 



This is my choyce : for why, I finde 
Xo wealth is like a quiet minde. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clere my chief defence ; 
I never seeke by bribes to please, 

Xor by desert to give offence. 
Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

Wdlliam Bybd. 



Z\\c t33intcr being (T^ucr. 

The winter being over, 

In order comes the spring. 
Which doth green herbs discover, 

And cause the birds to sing. 
The night also expired. 

Then comes the morning bright, 
Which is so much desired 

By all that love the light. 
This may learn 
Them that mourn. 

To put their grief to flight ; 
The spring succeedeth winter, 

And day must follow night. 

He therefore that sustaineth 

Affliction or distress 
Which every member paineth, 

And findeth no release — 
Let such therefore despair not, 

But on firm hope depend. 
Whose griefs immortal are not. 

And therefore must have end. 
They that faint 
With complaint 

Therefore are to blame : 
They add to their afflictions, 

And amplify the same. 

For if they could with patience 

Awhile possess the mind. 
By inward consolations 

They might refreshing find, 
To sweeten all their crosses 

That little time they 'dure ; 
So might they gain by losses, 

And sharp would sweet procure. 



1 

A SWEET PASTORAL. 707 


But if the mind 


Into some other fashion doth it range; 


Be inclined 


Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon ; i 


To unquietness. 


Wherefore, ray mind, above time, motion, place, 


That only mav be called 

* • 


Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. 


The worst of all distress. 




He that is melancholy, 


A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 


Detesting all delight, 


A beauty fading like the April showers. 


His wits by sottish folly 


A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, 


Are ruinated quite. 


A pleasure pa.ssing ere in thought made ours. 


Sad discontent and murmurs 


A honor that more fickle is than wind. 


To him are incident ; 


A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, ! 


Were he possessed of honors, 


A treasury which bankrupt time devours. 


He could not be content. 


A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind. 


Sparks of joy 


A vain delight our equals to command, 


Fly away ; 


A style of greatness in effect a dream. 


Floods of care arise : 


A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 


And all delightful motion 


A servile lot. decked with a pompous name : 


In the conception dies. 


Are the strange ends we toil for here below 




Till wisest death makes us our errors know. 


But those that are contented 


WiLLiAJi Drummoxd. 


However things do fall, 




Much anguish is prevented, 




And they soon freed from all. 
They finish all their labors 


li StDcct Pastoral. 


With much felicity ; 
Their joy in trouble savors 
Of perfect piety. 

Cheerfulness 

Doth express 


Good muse, rock me asleep 
With some sweet harraonv ! 

• 

The weary eye is not to keep 
Thy wary company. 


A settled pious mind, 


Sweet love, begone a while ! 


Which is not prone to grudging, 


Thou know'st my heaviness ; 


From murmuring refined. 


Beauty is born but to beguile 


AXN COLLDfS. 


My heart of happiness. 




See how my little flock. ^ 




That loved to feed on high. 


Sonnets. 


• Do headlong tumble dowii the rock, 


Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bays, 


And in the valley die, 

• 


Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth ; 


The bushes and the trees. 


Books heavenlv-wise in sweet harmonious lavs. 


That were so fresh and green. 


NMiich men divine unto the world set forth ; 


Do all their dainty color lease, 


States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise 


And not a leaf is seen. 


From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gauge ; 




Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange, 


Sweet Philomel, the bird 


Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of daj-s. 


That hath the heavenly throat. 


Nothing is constant but in constant change, 


Doth now, alas I not once afford 


What 's done still is undone, and when undone 


Recording of a note. 



708 P0E3IS OF SENTUIENT AND BEFLECTION. 


The flowers have had a frost ; 


The acorn's cup, the rain-drop's arc, 


Each herb hath lost her savor; 


The swinging spider's silver line. 


And Phillida, the fair, hath lost 


The ruby of the drop of wine, 


The comfort of her favor. 


The shining pebble of the pond 




Thou inscribest with a bond. 


Now all these careful sights 


In thy momentary play. 


So kill me in conceit, 


Would bankrupt nature to repay. 


That how to hope upon delights 


Ah, what avails it 


Is but a mere deceit. 


To hide or to shun 


And, therefore, my sweet muse, 


Whom the Infinite One 


Thou know'st what help is best ; 


Hath granted His throne ! 


Do now thy heavenly cunning use 


The heaven high over 


To set my heart at rest. 


Is the deep's lover ; 




The sun and sea, 


And in a dream bewray 


Informed "by thee, 


What fate shall be my friend — 


Before me run, 


Whether my life shall still decay, 


And draw me on. 


Or when my sorrow end. 


Yet fly me still, 


Nicholas Breton. 


As fate refuses 




To me the heart fate for me chooses. 




Is it that my opulent soul 


®bc to jBcautg. 


Was mingled from the generous whole ; 


Sea-valleys and the deep of skies 


Who gave thee, beauty, 


Furnished several supplies ; 


The keys of this breast. 


And the sands whereof I'm made 


Too credulous lover 


Draw me to them, self -betrayed ? 


Of blest and unblest ? 


I turn the proud portfolios 


Say, when in lapsed ages 


Which hold the grand designs 


Thee knew I of old? 


Of Salvator, of Guercino, 


Or what was the service 


And Piranesi's lines. 


For which I was sold ? 


I hear the lofty pfeans 


When first my eyes saw thee 


Of the masters of the shell. 


I found me thy thrall, 


Who heard the starry music 


By magical drawings, 


And recount the numbers well ; 


Sweet tyrant of all ! 


Olympian bards who sung 


I drank at thy fountain 


Divine ideas below. 


False waters of thirst ; 


Which always find us young, 


Thou intimate stranger, 


And always keep us so. 


Thou latest and first ! 


Oft, in streets or humblest places, 


Thy dangerous glances 


I detect far-wandered graces. 


Make women of men ; 


Which, from Eden wide astray, 


New-born, we are melting 


In lowly homes have lost their way. 


Into nature again. 






Thee gliding through the sea of form, 


Lavish, lavish promiser, 


Like the lightning through the storm, 


Nigh persuading gods to err ! 


Somewhat not to be possessed, 


Guest of million painted forms. 


Somewhat not to be caressed. 


Which in turn thy glory warms ! 


No feet so fleet could ever find, 


The frailest leaf, the mossy bark, 


No perfect form could ever bind. 

1 



HYJIX TO IXTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 



709 



Thou eternal fugitive, 
Hovering over all that live, 
Quick and skilful to inspire 
Sweet, extravagant desire, 
Starr}' space and lily-bell 
Filling with thy roseate smell, 
Wilt not give the lips to taste 
Of the nectar which thou hast. 

All that 's good and great with thee 

Works in close conspiracy ; 

Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely 

To report thy features only. 

And the cold and purple morning, 

Itself with thoughts of thee adorning ; 

The leafy dell, the city mart. 

Equal trophies of thine art ; 

E'en the flowing azure air 

Thou hast touched for my despair ; 

And, if I languish into dreams, 

Again I meet the ardent beams. 

Queen of things I I dare not die 

In being's deeps past ear and eye ; 

Lest there I find the same deceiver. 

And be the sport of fate forever. 

Dread power, but dear I if God thou be, 

Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me. 

Raxph Waldo Emerson. 



flnmn to JntcUcctual Dcautri. 

The awfid shadow of some unseen power 
Floats, though unseen, among us — visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower ; 
Like moonbeams, that behind some piny mountain 
shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance, 
Like hues and harmonies of eveninsr. 
Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled, 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone f 



Wliy dost thou pass away and leave our state. 
This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and deso- 
late ? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river : 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is 
shown ; 
Why fear, and dream, and death, and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom : why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope. 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given : 
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and 
heaven. 
Remain the records of their vain endeavor — 
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail 
to sever 
From all we hear and all we see 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven. 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream. 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal and omnipotent 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his 
heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane in lovere' eyes ! 
Thou that to huuum thought art nourishment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came I 
Depart not. lest the grave should l^e. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a listening chamber, cave, and 

ruin. 
And starlight wood, with f»^arfnl steps j^ursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the dep^irted dead. 
I called on })oisonous names with which our youth 
is fed : 



no 



P0E3IS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



I was not heard ; 1 saw them not. 
When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, 
Sudden thy shadow fell on me — 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 

1 vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine ; have I not kept the vow f 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even 
now 
1 call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave. They have in vis- 
ioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched with me the envious night ; 
They know that never joy illumed my brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free 
This world from its dark slavery — 
That thou, awful loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot ex- 
press. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past ; there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard nor 

seen. 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
Thus let thy power, which like the truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 
Its calm — to one who worships thee, 
And every form containing thee — 
Whom, spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human kind. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Song. 

Rarely, rarely comest thou. 

Spirit of delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
oNIany a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 



How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again f 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who heed thee not. 



As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the signs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art near, 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure : 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure. 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest, 

Spirit of delight ! 
The fresh earth in new leaves drest. 

And the starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves and winds and streams, 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
What difference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

I love Love, though he has wings. 

And like light can flee. 
But, above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee : 
Thou art love and life ! oh come. 
Make once more my heart thy home ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



. — . . 

WOOD-NOTES. 711 


i 


Supplied me necessary food ; 


WOOh-lS^OtCG. 


For Nature ever faithful is 




To such as trust her faithfulness. 


As svnbeams stream through liberal space 


When the forest shall mislead me. 


And nothing jostle m' displace, 

&o waved the pine-tree through my thought. 


When the night and morning lie. 


And fanned the dreams it never brought. 


When sea and land refuse to feed me, 




'Twill be time enough to die; • 


" Whether is better, the gift or the donor ? 


Then will yet my mother yield 


Come to me," 


A pillow in her greenest field. 


Quoth the pine-tree, 


Nor the June flowers scorn to cover 


" I am the giver of honor. 


The clay of their departed lover. 


My giirden is the cloven rock. 


Who liveth in the palace hall 


And my manure the snow ; 


Waneth fast and spendeth all. 


And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock, 


He goes to my savage haunts, 


In summer's scorching glow. 


With his chariot and his care ; 




My twilight realm he disenchants, 


" He is great who can live by me. 


And finds his prison there. 


The rough and bearded forester 




Is better than the lord ; 


" What prizes the town and the tower 1 


God fills the scrip and canister, 


Only what the pine-tree yields ; 


Sin piles the loaded board. 


Sinew that subdued the fields ; 


The lord is the peasant that was. 


The wild-eyed boy. who in the woods 


The peasant the lord that shall be ; 


Chants his hymn to hills and floods, 


The lord is hay, the peasant grass, 


Whom the city's poisoning spleen 


One dry, and one the living tree. 


Made not pale, or fat, or lean ; 


Who liveth by the ragged pine 


Whose iron arms, and iron mould, 


Foundeth a heroic line ; 


Know not fear, fatigue, or cold. 


It seemed the likeness of their own ; 


I give my rafters to his boat. 


They knew by secret sympathy 


My billets to his boiler's throat ; 


The public child of earth and sky. 


And I will swim the ancient sea. 


You ask," he said, " ' what guide 


To float my child to victory. 


Me through trackless thickets led, 


And grant to dwellers with the pine 


Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and 


Dominion o'er the palm and vine. 


wide ? '— 


Who leaves the ]iinc-trec, leaves his friend, 


I found the water's bed. 


Unnerves his strength, invites his end. 


TTie water-courses were my guide ; 


Cut a bough from my parent stem, 


I travelled grateful by their side. 


And dip it in thy porcelain vase ; 


Or through their channel dry ; 


A little while each russet gem 


They led me through the thicket damp. 


Will swell and rise with wonted grace; 


Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp. 


But when it seeks enlarged supplies. 


Through beds of granite cut my road. 


The orphan of the forest dies. 


And their resistless friendship showed: 


Whoso walks in solitude, 


The falling waters led me, 


And inliabitoth the wood. 


Tlie foodful waters fed me, 


Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird, 


And brought me to the lowest land, 


Before the money-loving herd, . 


Unerring to the ocean-sand. 


Into that forester shall pass 


The moss upon the forest bark 


From these companions, power and grace; 


Was pole-star when the night was dark ; 


Clean shall he be. without, within. 


The purple berries in the wood 


From the old adhering sin. 



1 712 POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 


1 

All ill dissolving in the light 


Of chemic matter, force, and form. 


Of his triumphant piercing sight. 


Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm : 


Xot vain, sonr, nor frivolous ; 


The rushing metamorphosis 


Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous ; 


Dissolving all that fixture is. 


Grave, chaste, contented, though retired, 


Melts things that be to things that seem, 


■ And of all other men desired. 

1 


And solid nature to a dream. 


On him the light of star and moon 


Oh, listen to the undersong, — 


Shall fall with purer radiance down ; 


The ever old, the ever young; 


AU constellations of the sky 


And, far within those cadent pauses, 


Shed their virtue through his eve. 


The chorus of the ancient Causes ! 


Hira Xature giveth for defence 


Delights the dreadful Destiny 


His formidabte innocence ; 


To fling his voice into the tree, 


The mountain sap, the shells, the sea, 


And shock thy weak ear with a note 


All spheres, all stones, his helpers be ; 


Breathed from the everlasting throat. 


He shall never be old ; 


In music he repeats the pang 


Xor his fate shall be foretold ; 


Whence the fan- flock of Xature sprang. 


He shall meet the speeding year, 


mortal I thy ears are stones ; 


Without Trailing, without fear ; 


These echoes are laden with tones 


He shall be happy in his love. 


Which only the pure can hear ; 


Like to like shall joyful prove ; 


Thou canst not catch what they recite 


He shall be happy whilst he wooes. 


Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, 


Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. 


Of man to come, of human life. 


But if with gold she bind her hair, 


Of Death, and Fortune, Growth, and Strife." 


And deck her breast with diamond. 




Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear, 


Once again the pine-tree sung : — 


Though thou lie alone on the ground. 


" Speak not thy speech my boughs among ; 




Put off thy years, wash in the breeze ; 


" Heed the old oracles. 


My hours are peaceful centuries. 


Ponder my spells ; 


Talk no more with feeble tongue ; 


Song wakes in my pinnacles 


Xo more the fool of space and time. 


When the wind swells. 


Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. 


Soundeth the prophetic wind. 


Only thy Americans 


The shadows shake on the rock behind. 


Can read thy line, can meet thy glance. 


And the countless leaves of the pine are 


But the nmes that I rehearse 


strings 


Understands the universe : 


Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. 


The least breath my boughs which tossed 


Hearken ! Hearken ! 


Brings again the Pentecost, 


If thou wouldst know the mystic song 


To every soul resounding clear 


Chanted when the sphere was young. 


In a voice of solemn cheer, — 


Aloft, abroad, the ptean swells ; 


' Am I not thine ? Are not these thine ? ' 


wise man I hear'st thou half it tells ? 


And they reply, ' Forever mine I' 


wise man ! hear'st thou the least part ? 


My branches speak Italian, 


"Tis the chronicle of art.. 


English, German. Basque, Castilian, 


To the open ear it sings 


Mountain speech to Highlanders, 


Sweet the genesis of things. 


Ocean tongues to islanders, 


Of tendency through endless ages. 


To Fin, and Lap, and swart Malay, 


Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages. 


To each his bosom-secret say. 


Of rounded worlds, of space and time, 


Come learn with me the fatal song 


Of the old flood's subsiding slime, 


Which knits the world in music strong, 



WOOD-NOTES 713 


Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, 


Strong art, and beautiful pretension. 


Of things with things, of times with times, 


This radiant pomj) of sun and star. 


Primal chimes of sun and shade. 


Throes that were, and worlds that are, 


Of sound and echo, man and maid, 


Behold ! were in vain and in vain ; — 


The land reflected in the flood. 


It cannot be, — I will look again ; 


Body with shadow still pursued. 


Surely now will the curtain rise, 


For Nature beats in perfect tune. 


And earth's fit tenant me surprise ; 


And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 


But the curtain doth nut rise. 


Whether she work in land or sea, 


And Nature has miscarried wholly 


Or hide underground her alchemy. 


Into failure, into folly.' 


Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 




Or dip thy paddle in the lake. 


" Alas ! thine is the bankruptcy, 


But it carves the bow of beauty there. 


Blessed Nature so to see. 


And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. 


Come, lay thee in my soothing shade. 


The wood is wiser far than thou ; 


And heal the hurts which sin has made. 


The wood and wave each other know. 


I see thee in the crowd alone ; 


Not unrelated, unaflfied, 


I will be thy companion. 


But to each thought and thing allied, 


Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, 


Is perfect Nature's every part, 


And build to them a final tomb ; 


Rooted in the mighty Heart. 


Let the starred shade that nightly falls 


But thou, poor child ! unbound, unrhymed. 


Still celebrate their funerals, 


Whence .camest thou, misplaced, mistimed? 


And the bell of beetle and of bee 


Whence, thou orphan and defrauded ? 


Knell their melodious memory. 


Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded ? 


Behind thee leave thy merchandise. 


Who thee divorced, deceived, and left ? 


Thy churches, and thy charities ; 


Thee of thy faith who hath bereft. 


And leave thy peacock wit behind ; 


And torn the ensigns from thy brow, 


Enough for thee the primal mind 


And sunk the immortal eye so low ? 


That flows in streams, that breathes in wind. 


Tliy cheek too white, thy form too slender. 


Leave all tiiy pedant love apart; 


Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender 


God hid the whole world in tliy heart. 


For royal man ; — they thee confess 


Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns, 


An exile from the wilderness, — 


Gives all to them who all renounce. 


The hills where health with health agrees. 


The rain comes when the wind calls; 


And the wise soul expels disease. 


The river knows the way to the sea; 


Hark ! in thy ear I will tell the sign 


Without a pilot it runs and falls, 


By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. 


Blessing all lands with its charity ; 


When thou shalt climb the mountain-cliif. 


The sea tosses and foams to find 


Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, 


Its way up to the cloud and wind ; 


To thee the horizon shall express 


The shadow sits close to the flying l)all : 


But emptiness on emptiness; 


The date fails not on the palm-tree tall : 


There lives no man of Nature's worth 


And thou, — go burn thy wormy pages, — 


In the circle of the earth ; 


Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. 


And to thine eye the vast skies fall. 


Oft didst thou search tlu> woods in vain 


Dire and satirical, 


To find what bird luul i)iped the strain ; 


On clucking hens, and prating fools, 


Seek not, and the little eremite 


On thieves, on drudges, and on dolls. 


Flies gayly forth and sings in sight. 


And thou shalt say to the Most High, 




'Godhead ! all this astronomy, 


" Hearken once more ! 


And fate, and practice, and invention, 


I will tell thee the mundane lore. 



714 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Older am I than thy numbers wot ; 


This vault which glows immense with light 


Change I may, but I pass not. 


Is the inn where he lodges for a night. 


Hitherto all things fast abide, 


What recks such Traveller if the bowers 


And anchored in the tempest ride. 


Which bloom and fade like meadow-flow- 


Trenchant time behooves to hurry 


ers 


All to yean and all to bury : 


A bunch of fragrant lilies be. 


All the forms are fugitive, 


Or the stars of eternity ? 


But the substances survive, 


Alike to him the better, the worse, — 


Ever fresh the broad creation, 


The glowing angel, the outcast corse. 


A divine improvisation, 


Thou meetest him by centuries, 


From the heart of God proceeds, 


And lo ! he passes like the breeze ; 


A single will, a million deeds. 


Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy, 


Once slept the world an &gg of stone. 


He hides in pure transparency ; 


And pulse, and sound, and light was 


Thou ask'st in fountains and in fires, — 


none; 


He is the essence that inquires. 


And God said, ' Throb ! ' and there was 


He is the axis of the star. 


motion. 


He is the sparkle of the spar. 


And the vast mass became vast ocean.- 


He is the heart of every creature, ♦ 


Onward and on, the eternal Pan, 


He is the meaning of each feature ; 


Who layeth the world's incessant plan, 


And his mind is the sky, 


Halteth never in one shape, 


Than aU it holds more deep, more high." 


But forever doth escape. 

Like wave or flame, into new forms 


Ealph Waldo Emerson. 


Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. 




I, that to-day am a pine, 




Yesterday was a bundle of grass. 
He is free and libertine. 


!3ral)ma. 


Pouring of his power the wine 
To every age, to every race ; 
Unto every race and age 
He emptieth the beverage ; 
Unto each and unto all, 


If the red slayer think he slays. 
Or if the slain think he is slain, 

They know not well the subtle ways 
I keep, and pass, and turn again. 


Maker and Original. 
The world is the ring of his spells. 
And the play of his miracles. 
As he giveth to all to drink. 
Thus or thus they are and think ; 


Far or forgot to me is near. 

Shadow and sunshine are the same ; 
The vanished gods to me appear, 

And one to me are shame and fame. 


He giveth little or giveth much. 
To make them several or such. 


They reckon ill who leave me out. 


With one drop sheds form and feature ; 


When me they fly I am the wings ; 


With the next a special natin-e ; 


I am the doubter and the doubt, 


The third adds heat's indulgent spark ; 


And I the hymn the Brahman sings. 


The fourth gives light which eats the dark ; 




Into the fifth himself he flings. 


The strong gods pine for my abode. 


And conscious Law is King of kings. 


And pine in vain the sacred seven; 


As the bee through the garden ranges, 


But thou, meek lover of the good. 


From world to world the godhead changes ; 


Find me and turn thy back on heaven. 


As the shoep go feeding in the waste. 
From form to form He maketh haste ; 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



SWEET IS THE PLEASURE. 



715 



StDcet is tl)c pleasure. 

Sweet is the pleasure 

Itself cannot spoil ! 
Is not true leisure 

One with true toil i 

Thou that wouldst taste it, 

Still do thy best ; 
Use it, not waste it — 

Else 'tis no rest. 

Wouldst behold beauty 

Near thee ? all round ? 
Only hath duty 

Such a sight found. 

Rest is not quitting 

The busy career ; 
Rest is the fitting 

Of self to its sphere. 

'Tis the brook's motion, 

Clear without strife, 
Fleeing to ocean 

After its life. 

Deeper devotion 

Nowhere hath knelt ; 
Fuller emotion 

Heart never felt. 

'Tis loving and serving 

The highest and best ; 
'Tis onwards ! unswerving — 

And that is true rest. 

John Sullivan Dwight. 



Stanzas. 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought ; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils ; 

Man by man was never seen ; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 



Heart to heart was never known ; 

Mind with mind did never meet ; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie ; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream ? 

What our wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought. 
Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught. 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 
And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth. 

We, like parted drops of rain, 
Swelling till they meet and run, 

Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 



^\)t Sables (Tunieb. 

Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books, 

Or surely you'll grow double ; 
Up ! up, my friend ! and clear your looks ! 

Why all this toil and trouble? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 
Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife ; 

Come, hear the woodland linnet — 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 

There 's more of wisdom in it ! 



J 



716 



POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOX. 



And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 

He, too, is no mean preacher ; 
Come forth into the light of things — 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless, — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a yernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 
Of moral eyil and of good. 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of science and of art ; 

Close up those barren leayes ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receiyes. 

William Wordsworth. 



i^l)c i^ountain. 

A COXyERSATIOX. 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 

Affectionate and true — 
A pair of friends, though I was young. 

And Matthew seyenty-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak. 

Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke. 

And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew V said I, " let us match 

This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song or catch. 

That suits a summer's noon ; 

"Or of the church clock and the chimes 
Sing here, beneath the shade, 

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made !" 



In silence Matthew lay. and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 

And thus the dear old man replied, 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

*' No check, no stay, this streamlet fears, 

How merrily it goes I 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 

And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a yigorous man, I lay 

Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears. 

My heart is idly stirred ; 
For the same sound is in my ears 

Which in those days 1 heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay ; 

And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 

Than what it leayes behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark aboye the hill, 
Let loose their carols when they please, 

Are quiet when they will. 

" With Nature neyer do they wage 

A foolish strife : they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 

Is beautiful and free. 

t 

" But we are prest by heayy laws : 

And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 

We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid in earth, 
The household hearts that were his own. 

It is the man of mirth. 

" My days, my friend, are almost gone ; 

My life has been approved, 
And many love me : but by none 

Am I enough beloved I " 



1 

THE CROWDED STREET. 717 i 

1 

1 


" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 


Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame. 


The man who thus complains ! 


And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 


I live and sing my idle songs 


Go'st thou to build an early name, 


Upon these happy plains ; 


Or early in the task to die ? 


" And, Matthew, for thy children dead, 


Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! 


I'll be a son to thee ! " 


Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 


At this he grasped my hand, and said, 


Thy golden fortunes, tower they now. 


" Alas ! that cannot be." 


Or melt the glittering spires in air? 


We rose up from the fountain side ; 


Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 


And down the smooth descent 


The dance till daylight gleam again? 


Of the green sheep-track did we glide, 


Who sorrow o'er ihe untimely dead ? 


And through the wood we went ; 


Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 


And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 


Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 


He sang those witty rhymes 


The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; 


About the crazy old church-clock. 


And some, who flaunt amid the throng. 


And the bewildered chimes. 


Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 


William Wordsworth. 






Each where his tasks or pleasures call. 




They pass, and heed each other not. 




There is who heeds, who holds them all 


^\\t (flrotDbeb Street. 


In His large love and boundless thought. 


Let me move slowly through the street, 


These struggling tides of life, that seem 


Filled with an ever-shifting train, 


In wayward, aimless course to tend. 


Amid the sound of steps that beat 


Are eddies of the mighty stream 


The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 


That rolls to its appointed end. 




William Cullen Bryant. 


How fast the flitting figures come ! 




The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 




Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 


(?5oob-bnc. 


Where secret tears have left their trace. 






Good-bye, proud world I I'm going home ; 


They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 


Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 


To halls in which the feast is spread — 


Long through thy weary crowds I roam; 


To chambers where the funeral guest 


A river-ark on the ocean-brine, 


In silence sits beside the dead. 


Long I've been 'tossed like the driven foam ; 




But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 


And some to happy homos repair. 




Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, 


Good-bye to flattery's fawning face ; 


With mute caresses shall declare 


To grandeur witli his wise grimace ; 


The tenderness they cannot speak. 


To upstart wealth's averted eye ; 




To supple office, low and high ; 


And some, who walk in calmness here, 


To crowded halls, to court and street ; 


Shall shudder as they reach the door 


To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 


Where one wlio made their dwelling dear. 


To those who go and those who come — 


Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 


Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home. 



718 P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 

- 


I am going to my own hearth-stone, 


Early or late, the falling rain 


Bosomed in yon green hills alone — 


Arrived in time to swell his grain ; 


A secret nook in a pleasant land, 


Stream could not so perversely wind 


Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 


But corn of Guy's was there to grind ; 


Where arches green, the livelong day, 


The siroc found it on its way 


Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 


To speed his sails, to dry his hay ; 


And vulgar feet have never trod — 


And the world's sun seemed to rise 


A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 


To drudge all day for Guy the wise. 


Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 


In his rich nurseries timely skill 


1 tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 


Strong crab with nobler blood did fill ; 


And when [ am stretched beneath the pines 


The zephyr in his garden rolled 


Wnere the evening star so holy shines. 


From plum-trees vegetable gold ; 


I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 


And all the hours of the year 


At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 


With their own harvests honored were. 


For what are they all, in their high conceit. 


There was no frost but welcome came. 


When man in the bush with God may meet ? 


Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame. 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


Belonged to wind and world the toil 




And venture, and to Guy the oil. 




Ralph Waldo Emerson, 


^UJI. 


, 


Mortal mixed of middle clay, 


tlie Snnken (Cittt. 


Attempered to the night and day, 




Interchangeable with things. 


Hark ! the faint bells of the sunken city 


Xeeds no amulets or rings. 


Peal once more their wonted evening chime ! 


Guy possessed the talisman 


From the deep abysses floats a ditty, 


That all things from him began ; 


Wild and wondrous, of the olden time. 


And as, of old, Polycrates 




Chained the sunshine and the breeze, 


Temples, towers, and domes of many stories 


So did Guy betimes discover 


There lie buried in an ocean grave — 


Fortune was his guard and lover — 


Un descried, save when their golden glories 


In strange junctures felt, with awe. 


Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave. 


His own symmetry with law ; 




So that no mixture could withstand 


And the mariner who had seen them glisten. 


The virtue of his lucky hand. 


In whose ears those magic bells do sound, 


He gold or jewel could not lose. 


Night by night bides there to watch and listen. 


Nor not receive his ample dues. 


Though death lurks behind each dark rock 


In the street, if he turnetl round, 


round. 


His eye the eye 'twas seeking found. 




It seemed his genius discreet 


So the bells of memory's wonder-city 


Worked on the maker's own receipt, 


Peal for me their old melodious chime ; 


And made each tide and element 


So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty. 


Stewards of stipend and of rent ; 


Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time. 


So that the common waters fell 




As costly wine into his well. 


Domes, and towers, and castles, fancy-builded. 




There lie lost to daylight's garish beams — 


He had so sped his wise affairs 


There lie hidden, till unveiled and gilded, 


That he caught nature in his snares ; 


Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams ! 



BACCHUS. 710 


And then hear I music sweet upknelling 


Wine which is already man, 


From many a well-known pliantom band, 


Food which teach and reason can. 


And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling 




Far off in the spirit's luminous land ! 


Wine which music is, — 


WiLHELM Mueller. (German.) 


Music and wine are one, — 


Translation of James Clarence Mangan. 


That I, drinking this, 




Shall hear far chaos talk with me ; 




Kings unborn shall walk with me ; 




And the poor grass shall plot and plan 


jBaccbus. 


What it will do when it is man. 




Quickened so, will 1 unlock 


Brixg me wine, but wine which never grew 


Every crypt of every rock. 


In the belly of the grape, 




Or grew on vines whose tap-roots, reaching 


I thank the joyful juice 


through 


For all I know : • 


Under the Andes to the Cape, 


Winds of remembering 


Suffered no savor of the earth to 'scape. 


Of the ancient being blow. 




And seeming-solid walls of use 


Let its grapes the morn salute 


Open and flow. 


From a nocturnal root, 




Which feels the acrid juice 


Pour, Bacchus ! the remembering wine ; 


Of Styx and Erebus ; 


Retrieve the loss of me and mine! 


And turns the woe of night, 


Vine for the vine be antidote, 


By it>« own craft, to a more rich delight. 


And the grapes requite the lote I 




Haste to cure the old despair, — 


We buy ashes for bread, 


Reason in nature's lotus drenched, 


We buy diluted wine ; 


The memory of ages quenched, 


Give me of the true, — 


Give them again to shine : 


Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled 


^ * 
Let wine repair what this undid : 


Among the silver hills of heaven. 


And where the infection slid, 


Draw everlasting dew ; 


A dazzling memory revive ; 


Wine of wine, 


Refresh the faded tints. 


Blood of the world. 


Rccut the aged prints. 


Form of forms and mould of statures, 


And write my old adventures with the pen 


That I intoxicated. 


Which on the first day drew, 


And by the draught assimilated. 


Upon the tablets blue. 


^lay float at pleasure through all natures ; 


The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. 


The bird-language rightly spell, 


w? 


And thiit which roses say so well. 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


Wine that is shed 




Like the torrents of the sun 


(Z^cm^jcrancc, or tl)c (Cl)cap pi)ri5ician. 


Up the horizon walls, 




Or like the Atlantic streams, which run 


Go now ! and with some daring drug 


Wlien the South Sea calls. 


Bait thy disease: and. whilst they tug. 




Thoii, to maintain their precious strife, 


Water and bread, 


Spend the dear treasures of thy life. 


Food which needs no transmuting, 


Go! take physic — dote upon 


Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting 


Some big-named composition, 



720 POEMS OF SEXTIJIENT AXD REFLECTIOy. 


The oraculous doctor's mystic bills — 




Certain hard words made into pills ; 


Smoking Spirituali^cb. 


And what at last shalt gain by these ? 


Only a costlier disease. 


PART I. 


That which makes us have no need 




Of physic, that 's physic indeed. 


This Indian weed, now withered quite. 


Hark, hither, reader ! wilt thou see 


Though green at noon, cut down at night. 


Xature her old physician be ? 


Shows thy decay — 


Wilt see a man all his own wealth, 


All flesh is hay : 


7 

His own music, his own health — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A man whose sober soul can tell 




How to wear her garments well — 


The pipe, so lily-like and weak. 


Her garments that upon her sit 


Does thus thy mortal state bespeak ; 


As garments should do, close and fit — 


Thou art e'en such — 


A well-clothed soul that 's not oppressed 


Gone with a touch : 


Xor choked with what she should be dressed — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, 




Through which all her bright features shine ; 


And when the smoke ascends on high, 


As when a piece of wanton lawn, 


Then thou behold'st the vanity 


A thin aerial veil, is drawn 


Of worldly stuff — 


O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide. 


Gone with a puff : 


More sweetly shows the blushing bride — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A soul whose intellectual beams 




No mists do mask, no lazy streams — 


And when the pipe grows foul within, 


A happy soul, that all the way 


Think on thy soul defiled with sin ; 


To heaven hath a summer's day? 


For then the fire 


Wouldst see a man whose well-warmed blood 


It does require : 


Bathes him in a genuine flood? — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A man whose tuned humors be 




A seat of rarest harmony ? 


And seest the ashes cast away, 


Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile 


Then to thyself thou raayest say 


Age ? Wouldst see December's smile ? 


That to the dust 


Wouldst see nests of new roses grow 


Return thou must : 


In a bed of reverend snow? 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering 




Winter's self into a spring? — 




In sum, wouldst see a man that can 


PART II. 


Live to be old, and still a man? 




7 

Whose latest and most leaden hours 


Was this small plant for thee cut down? 


Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; 


So was the plant of great renown. 


And when life's sweet fable ends, 


Which mercy sends 


Soul and bodv part like friends — 


For nobler ends : 


* 1 

Xo quarrels, murmurs, no delay — 


Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 


A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 




This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see? 


Doth juice medicinal proceed 


Hark, hither ! and thyself be he. 


From such a naughty foreign weed ? 


Richard Crashaw. 


Then what 's the power 




Of Jesse's flower ? 




Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 



THE VANITY OF HUM AX WISHES. 



r21 



The promise, like the pipe, inlays, 
And by the mouth of faith conveys 

What virtue flows 

From Sharon's rose : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

In vain the unlighted pipe you blow — 
Your pains in outward means are so, 
Till heavenly fire 
• Your heart inspire : 

Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

The smoke like burning incense towers ; 
So should a praying heart of yours 
With ardent cries 
Surmount the skies : 
Thus think, and smoke tobacco. 

Anonyjious. 



QL\)c banitn of i^uman tDislics. 

IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 

Let observation, with extensive view, 
Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life : 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
O'crspread with snares the clouded maze of fate. 
Where wavering man, betrayed by venturous pride 
To chase the dreary paths without a guide, 
As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude, 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice ; 
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppressed. 
When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with every wish the afflictive dart. 
Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows. 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows. 
Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath, 
And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold 
Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 
Wide wasting pest ! that rages unconfined 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind : 
4S 



For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws ; 
Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Let history tell where rival kings command. 
And dubious title shakes the madded land. 
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword. 
How much more safe the vassal than the lord ; 
Low skulks the hind below the rage of power. 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower; 
Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound. 
Though confiscation's vultures hover round. 

The needy traveller, serene and gay. 
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. 
Does envy seize thee? crush the upbraiding joy. 
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy : 
Xow fears in dire vicissitude invade. 
The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade, 
Nor light nor darkness brings his pain relief. 
One shows the plunder and one hides the thief. 

Yet still one general cry the skies assails. 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales ; 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care. 
The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth. 
With cheerful wisdom and instructive- mirth ; 
See motley life in modern trappings dressed. 
And feed with varied fools the eternal jest : 
Thou who couldst laugh, where want eneliained 

caprice. 
Toil crushed conceit, and man was of a piece : 
Where wealth unloved without a mourner died. 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride : 
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, 
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
Where change of favorites made no change of 

laws. 
And senates heard liefore they judged a cause ; 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, 
Dart the quick taunt and edge the piercing gibef 
Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
And pierce each scene with ]ihilosophic eye. 
To thee were solemn toys, or empty show. 
The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe: 
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain. 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. 



722 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Such was the scorn that filled the sage's mind, 
llenewed at every glance on human kind ; 
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
Search every state, and canvass every prayer. 

Unnumbered suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great ; 
Delusive fortune hears the incessant call. 
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On every stage the foes of peace attend. 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door 
Pours in the mourning worshipper no more; 
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
Prom every room descends the painted face 
That hung the bright palladium of the place, 
And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in every line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine ; 
The form distorted justifies the fall. 
And detestation rids the indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
Sign her foes' doom, or guard the favorite's zeal ? 
Through freedom's sons no more remonstrance 

rings. 
Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
With weekly libels and septennial ale, 
Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full-flown dignity see Wolsey stand. 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand ; 
To him the church, the realm, their powers con- 
sign, 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine. 
Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows. 
His smile alone security bestows ; 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize ; 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate ; 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 



Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord ; 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest ; 
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Speak, thou whose thoughts at humble peace re- 
pine. 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine ? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent ? 
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight ? 
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below ? 

What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife. 
And fixed disease on Harley's closing life ? 
What murdered Wentworth, and what exiled Hyde ; 
By kings protected, and to kings allied f 
What but their wish indulged in courts to shine, 
And power too great to keep or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his name, 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; 
Hesistless burns the fever of renown, 
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown ; 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labors spread. 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious youth, 
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth ! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat 
Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain. 
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart. 
Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ; 
Should no disease the torpid veins invade. 
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 



723 



Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, 
And pause awhile from letters to be wise ; 
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just. 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, yet again attend. 
Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows. 
The glittering eminence exempt from foes ; 
See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despised or awed. 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
From meaner minds though smaller fines content. 
The plundered palace or sequestered rent, 
Marked out by dangerous parts, he meets the 

shock, 
And fatal learning leads him to the block ; 
Around his tomb let art and genius weep, 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. 

The festal blazes, the triumphant show. 
The ravished standard, and the captive foe, 
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale, 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia wliirled, 
For such the steady Roman shook the world ; 
For such in distant lands the "Britons shine. 
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine ; 
This power has praise, that virtue scarce can 

warm 
Till fame supplies the universal charm. 
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game. 
Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 
And mortgaged states their grandsire's wreaths 

regret. 
From age to age in everlasting debt ; 
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right con- 
vey 
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
ITow just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide : 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
No dangers friglit him, and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to liim pacific sceptres yield. 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 



Behold surrounding kings their powers combine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign : 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 
vain ; 

" Think nothing gained," he cries, " till naught 
remain. 

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky ! " 

The march begins in military state. 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 

Stern famine guards the solitary coast. 

And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course de- 
lay;— 

Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day: 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemned a needy suppliant to wait, 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 

But did not chance at length her error mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 

He left the name, at which the world grew 
pale. 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, 
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 
In gay hostility and barbarous pride, 
With half mankind embattled at his side. 
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, 
And starves exhausted regions in liis way : 
Attendant flattery counts his myriads o'er, 
Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more ; 
Fresh praise is tried till m.-ulness fires his mind, 
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind, 
New powers he claims, new powers are still be- 
stowed, 
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god. 
The daring Greeks deride the murtial show, 
And heap their valleys witli the gaudy foe: 
The insulted sea with humbler thought he gains, 
A single skiff to speed his fliglit remains: 
The encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded 

C(^ast 
Through purple billows and a floating host. 



7-:4 



POE^IS OF SFXTIJIFXT AXD EEFLECTIOy 



The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, 
Tries the dread summits of Caesarean power, 
With unexpected legions bursts a war, 
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway : 
Short sway I fair Austria spreads her mournful 

charms. 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise : 
The fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar. 
With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; 
The baffled prince, in honors flattering bloom 
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom. 
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame. 
And steals to death from anguish and from shame. 

" Enlarge ray life with multitude of days I " 
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays : 
Hides from himself its state, and shuns to know 
That life protracted is protracted woe. 
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
And shuts up all the passages of joy. 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
The fruit autumnal and the vernal flower ; 
With listlesfe eyes the dotard views the store, 
He views, and wonders that they please no more ; 
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines. 
And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain. 
Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 
Xo sounds, alas ! would touch the impervious ear. 
Though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus 

near : 
Nor lute nor lyre his feebler powers attend. 
Nor sweeter music of a Airtuous friend ; 
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue. 
Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
The still returning tale and lingering jest 
Perplex the fawning niece and pampered guest. 
While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering 

sneer, 
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 
The watchful guests stUl hint the last offence ; 
The daughter's petulance, the son's expense ; 
Improve his heady rage with treacherous skill. 
And mould his passions till they make his will. 

Unnumbered maladies his joints invade. 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 



But unextinguished avarice still remains. 

And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 

He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 

hands, 
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes. 
Unlocks his gold, and counts it tiU he dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceived decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away : 
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears. 
Whose night congratulating conscience cheei^ : 
The general favorite as the general friend ; 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? 

Yet even on this her load misfortune flings, 
To press the weary minutes" flagging wings ; 
Xew sorrow rises as the day returns, 
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns ; 
Xow kindred merit fills the sable bier, 
Xow lacerated friendship claims a tear ; 
Year chases year, decay pursues decay. 
Still drops some joy from withering life away ; 
Xew forms aiise. and different views engage. 
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage, 
Till pitying nature signs the last release. 
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these 
await. 
Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. 
From Lydia's monarch should the search de- 
scend. 
By Solon cautioned to regard his end. 
In life's last sc-ene what prodigies surprise, 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise : 
From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage 

flow. 
And Swift expires a driveller and a show I 

The teeming mother, anxious for her race. 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face : 
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beautv 



spring ; 
And Sedley 
king. 



cursed the form that pleased a 



WITHOUT AXD WITHIX. 



725 



Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 

Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 

Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 

By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; 

Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, 

And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 

What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall 

save, 
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your 

slave ? 
Against your fame with fondness hate combines. 
The rival batters, and the lover mines : 
With distant voice neglected virtue calls. 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 

falls ; 
Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery 

reign. 
And pride and prudence take her seat in vain. 
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, 
The harmless freedom, and the private friend ; 
The guardians yield, by force superior plied : 
To interest, prudence ; and to flattery, pride. 
Here beauty falls betrayed, despised, distressed, 
And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. 

Where then shall hope and fear their objects 

find? 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate. 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
Xo cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 
Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
^Miich Heaven mav hear, nor deem religion 

vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
Safe in His power whose eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest. 
Secure, whate'er He gives. He gives the best. 
Yet, when the sense of secret presence fires, 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind. 
Obedient passions, and a will resigned ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; 
For faith, that, panting for a hapi)ior seat, 
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat. 



These goods for man the laws of heaven ordain ; 
These goods he grants, who grants the power to 

gain; 
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 

Sahuel Johnson. 



toitliout anb IXIitliin. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there. 
Looks through the side-light of the door ; 

I hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane. 

He envies me my brilli-:int lot. 
Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 

And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side. 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is ray arm 

'Xeath its white-gloved and jewelled load : 
And wishes me some dreadful harm. 

Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him. outside the door. 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win, 

Xor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms. 

And drag my huly's chains, and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din. 

And I his quiet I — past a doubt 
'Twouhl still be one man bored within, 

And just another bored without. 

Jame< IU'ssell Lowell. 



726 POEMS OF SEXTniEST AXE REFLECTIOX. 




i^ablc. 


Song. 




The mountain and the squirrel 


Down lay in a nook my lady's brach 




Had a quarrel ; 


And said, my feet are sore ; 




And the former called the latter " Little Prig ; " 


I cannot follow with the pack 




Bim replied, 


A-hunting of the boar. 




" You are doubtless very big ; 






But all sorts of things and weather 


And though the horn sounds never so clear, 




Must be taken in together. 


With the hounds in loud uproar. 




To make up a year 


Y"et 1 must stop and lie down here, 




And a sphere. 


Because my feet are sore. 




And 1 think it no disgrace 






To occupy my place. 
If Fm not so large as you, 
You are not so small as I, 
And not half so spry. 
I'll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel-track ; 


The huntsman, when he heard the same, 

WTiat answer did he give ? 
The dog that "s lame is much to blame, 

He is not fit to live. 

Hexry Taylor. 




Talents differ ; aU is well and wisely put ; 






If I cannot carry forests on my back, 






Neither can you crack a nut." 


Dejection : an (3>be. 




Bat.ph Waldo Eseeksox. 


Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon, 
With the old moon in her arm, 

And I fear. I fear, mv master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 




^§cnce all ^o\\ bain DcUglits. 


Ballad of Sir Patrick Spexce. 




He>'ce all yoa vain delights, 


I. 




As short as are the nights 


Well I if the bard was weather-wise, who made 




Wherein you spend your folly I 


The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 




There 's naught in this life sweet. 


This night, so tranquil now. will not go hence 




If man were wise to see "t, 


Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade 




But only melancholy : 


Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 




Oh sweetest melancholy ! 


Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes 




Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, 


Upon the strings of the Eolian lute, 




A sigh that, piercing, mortifies. 


Which better far were mute. 




A look that "s fastened to the ground. 


For lol the new-moon, winter-bright. 


\ 


A tongue chained up without a sound ! 


And overspread with phantom light — 




Fountain heads and pathless groves; 


With swimming phantom light o'erspread. 




Plcices which pale passion loves ; 


But rimmed and circled by a silver thread I 




Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 


I see the old moon in her lap. foretelling 




Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 


The coming on of rain and squally blast. 




A midnight l)ell, a parting groan — 


And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling. 




These are the sounds we feed upon : 


And the slant night-shower driving loud and 




Then stretch our lx)nes in a still gloomy valley. 


fast : 


1 


Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 


Those sounds, which oft have raised me whQst they 


1 

i 
1 


Beaumont and Fletcher. 


awed, 
And sent my soul abroad. 



DEJECTION : AN ODE. 



Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give — 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 
live. 

II. 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear — 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 

To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed, 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
Have 1 been gazing on the western sky, 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; 
And still 1 gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and 

bars, 
That give away their motion to the stars — 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen — 
Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue : 

1 see them all so excellently fair — 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

III. 

My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast I 

It were a vain endeavor. 

Though I should gaze forever 
On that green light that lingers in the west ; 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life whose fountains are within. 

IV. 

lady ! we receive but what we give. 

And in our life alone does nature live ; 

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ; 

And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd — 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the earth ; 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice of its own birth. 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 



v. 

pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be — 
What, and wherein it doth exist — 

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous lady ! Joy that ne'er was given 
Save to the pure, and m their purest hour — 
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower — 
Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power 
Which, wedding nature to us, gives in dower 

A new earth and new heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms our ear or 
sight — 
All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a suffusion from that light. 

VI. 

There was a time when, though my path was 
rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress ; 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. 
For hope grew round me like the twining vine ; 
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth, 
Nor care I that they rob me of ray mirth ; 

But oh I each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 

My shaping spirit of imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan ; 
Till that which suits a part mfects the whole. 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 

VII. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around ■ my 
mind — 

Reality's dark dream ! 

1 turn from you, and listen to the wind, 

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 



728 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Of agony, by torture lengthened out, 

That hite sent forth ! Thou wind, that ravest 

"without ! 
Ba' 6 crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
Met h inks were fitter instruments for thee, 
Mad lutanist ! who, in this month of showers. 
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among ! 
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout. 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with 
the cold. 
But hark ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
With groans, and tremulous shuddering — all is 
over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
loud ; 

A tale of less affright, 
And tempered with delight. 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay : 
'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild — 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her 

way; 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear — 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 
mother hear. 



VIII. 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of 

sleep ; 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle sleep, with wings of healing! 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth ; 
May all the stars hang bright above lier dwelling. 
Silent as though they watched the sleeping 
earth ! 

With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes — 
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice! 



To her may all things live, from pole to pole — 
Their life the eddying of her living soul 1 

simple spirit, guided from above ! 
Dear lady ! friend devoutest of my choice ! 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



i^lotDcrs tDitliout -fruit. 

Prune thou thy words ; the thoughts control 
That o'er thee swell and throng : 

They will condense within thy soul, 
And change to purpose strong. 

But he who lets his feelings run 

In soft luxurious flow. 
Shrinks when hard service must be done, 

And faints at every woe. 

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears. 
Where hearts and wills are weighed, 

Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, 
Which bloom their hour, and fade. 

John Henry Newman. 



Sir illarmabukc. 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight — 

Good man ! old man ! 
He 's painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose rolled over his knee ; 
His periwig 's as white as chalk. 
And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

His dining-room was long and wide — 

Good man ! old man ! 
His spaniels lay by the fireside ; 

And in other parts, d'ye see, 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 

And he looked like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

He never turned the poor from the gate- 

Good man ! old man ! 
But was always ready to break the pate 

Of his country's enemy. 



1 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 



729 



What knight could do a better thing 
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king ? 
And so may every head 
Of an ancient family. 

George Colmak, the younger. 



J am a fxmx of (Drbcrs (5rat). 

I A.M a friar of orders gray, 

And down in the valleys I take my way ; 

I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 

Good store of venison fills my scrip ; 

My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; 

Where'er I walk, no money I want ; 

And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 

Who leads a good life is sure to live well. 
What baron or squire, 
Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holy friar ! 

After supper, of heaven I dream, 
But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; 
Myself, by denial, I mortify — 
With a dainty bit of a warden pie ; 
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin — 
With old sack wine I'm lined within : 
A chirping cup is my matin song, 
And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. 
What baron or squire, 
Or knight of the shire, 
Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 

John O'Keefe. 



^\)t ^gc of toisbom. 

Hoi pretty page, M'ith the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin — 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes — 

Wait till you come to forty year. 



Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round : I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray — 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed. 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be missed — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier — 
How I loved her twenty years syne I 

Marian 's married ; but I sit here. 

Alone and merry at forty year. 
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



llauitiis banitatum. 

How spake of old the Royal Seer f 
(His text is one I love to treat on.) 

This life of ours, he sjiid, is sheer 
Mataiotes mataioteton. 

student of this gilded book, 
Declare, while musing on its pages. 

If truer words were ever si)oke 
By ancient or by modern sages ? 

The various authors' names but note, 

French, Spanish, English, Russians, Ger- 
mans: 

And in the volume polyglot 

Sure you may read a hundred sermons. 

What histories of life are here. 

More wild than all romancers' stories; 

What wondrous transformations queer, 
What homilies on human glories ! 



730 



POEMS OF SEXTniEXT AXD REFLECTIOy. 



What theme for sorrow or for scorn I 
What chronicle of Fate's surprises - 
Of adverse fortune nobly borne, 



Of chances, change; 



ruins, nses 



COS ' 



Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke. 
How strange a record here is written I 

Of honors, dealt as if in joke ; 
Of brave desert unkindlT smitten. 

How low men were, and how they rise I 

How high they were, and how they tumble I 

vanity of vanities I 

laughable, pathetic jumble I 

Here between honest Janin's joke 
And his Turk Excellency's firman, 

1 write my name upon the l3ook : 

1 write my name — and end mv sermon. 



vanity of vanities I 

How wayward the decrees of Fate are : 
How very weak the very wise. 

How very small the very great are I 

What mean these stale moralities, 

Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble ? 
Why rail against the great and wise. 

And tire us with your ceaseless grumble t 

Pray choose us out another text, 
O man morose and narrow-minded ! 

Come, turn the page — I read the next. 
And then the next, and still I find it. 

Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, 

And Folly set in place exalted : 
How princes footed in the dust. 

^IMiile lackeys in the saddle vaidted. 

Though thrice a thousand years are past, 
Since David's son, the sad and splendid, 

The wear}' King Ecclesiast, 

Upon his awful tablets penned it, — 

Methinks the text is nerFT^tele, 

And life is every day renewing. 
Fresh comments on the old, old tale 

Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Rain. 



Hark to the Preacher, preaching stiil I 
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon. 

Here at St. Peter's of Comhili, 
As yonder on the Mount of Hermon : 

For you and me to heart to take 
(0 dear beloved brother readers), 

To-day, as when the good King spake 
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. 

WnxiAjc Makepeace Thaceebat. 



Jn pace. 

WsrEy you are dead some day. my dear, 

Quite dead and underground. 
Where you will never see or hear 

A summer sight or sound : 
What shall become of you in death. 

When all our songs to you 
Are silent as the bird whose breath 

Has sung the summer through ? 

1 wonder will you ever wake. 

And with tired eyes asrain 
Live for your old life's little sake 

An age of joy or pain f 
Shall some stem destiny control 

That perfect form, wherein 
I hardly see enough of soul 

To make your life a sin f 

For we have heard, for all things bom 

One harvest -day prepares 
Its golden gamers for the com, 

And fire to bum the tares ; 
But who shall gather into sheaves, 

Or turn aside to blame 
The poppy's puckered helpless leaves. 

Blown bells of scarlet flame ? 

Xo hate so hard, no love so bold 

To seek your bliss or woe : 
You are too sweet for hell to hold. 

And heaven would tire you so. 
A little while your joy shall be. 

And when you crave for rest. 
The earth shall take you utterly 

Again into her breast. 



( 



NOTHING LNDER THE SUN IS NEW. 



731 



And we will find a quiet place 

For your still sepulchre, 
And lay the flowers upon your face, 

Sweet as your kisses were ; 
And with hushed voices, void of mirth. 

Spread the light turf above. 
Soft as the silk you loved on earth 

As much as you could love. 

Few tears, but once, our eyes shall shed, 

Xor will we sigh at all, 
But come and look upon your bed 

When the warm sunlights fall. 
Upon that grave no tree of fruit 

Shall grow, nor any grain ; 
Only one flower of shallow root, 

That will not spring again. 

A. R. EopEs. 



^'otliing nnbcr tlic Sun is Xcro. 

XoTHiXG under the sun is new — 

The old was old in Solomon's day. 
The false was false and the true was true ; 

As the false and true will be alway. 

The Pharisee walks in the public place 
With his broad phylacteries displayed, 

And makes the prayers with a solemn face 
That a thousand years ago he made. 

The priest and the Levite still pass by, 
WhUe the wounded wretch, on the other 
side. 

Appeals in vain with beseeching eye 
For the helping hand so coldly denied. 

Now Lazarus begs at Dives' gate 

For the crumbs that fall from his ample 
feast ; 
And never a fear of his future fate 

Disturbs the rich man's soul in the least. 

And ^lagdalen crouches in dumb despair, 
Alone at the foot of the altar-stone. 

And nolx)dv heeds her Iving there. 

Or hears her prayer in its anguished moan. 



So nothing under the sun is new — 
The old was old in Solomon's day ; 

But where are the workers, faithful and true, 
Who lifted the fallen along the way? 

Will the good Samaritan come no more ? 

Is the strength of the chosen weak and cold ? 
Are faith and hope and charity o'er f 

Is it only love that dies when old ? 

Xay, love survives, and brave souls live. 
And generous deeds are done by the few, 

While the many accept what the martyrs give, 
And — nothing under the sun is new ! 

Mabc Eugene Cook. 



STIjc (Dnc CSrari §air. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 

And love to hear them told ; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one — 
Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. 

I never sat among 

The choir of wisdom's song. 

But pretty lies loved I 
As much as any king — 
When youth was on the wing. 
And (must it then be toldf) when youth had quite 
gone by. 

Alas I and I have not 
The pleasjmt hour forgot. 

When one pert lady said — 
*' Landor ! I am quite 
Bewildered with affright ; 
I see (sit quiet now ! ) a white hair on your head I " 

Another, more l>enign. 
Drew out that hair of mine. 
And in her own dark hair 
Pretended she ha<l found 
That one. an«l twirled it round. 
Fair as she Wi\s, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Lavdor. 



. 

733 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 




The mossy marbles rest 


®o perilla. 


On the lips that he has pressed 




In their bloom ; 


Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 


And the names he loved to hear 


Me, day by day, to steal away from thee ? 


Have been carved for many a year 


Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid 


On the tomb. 


come. 




And haste away to mine eternal home ; 


My grandmamma has said — 


'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this 


Poor old lady ! she is dead 


That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 


Long ago — 


Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring 


That he had a Roman nose. 


Part of the cream from that religious spring. 


And his cheek was like a rose 


With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet ; 


In the snow. 


That done, then wind me in that very sheet 




Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst 


But now his nose is thin, 


implore 


And it rests upon his chin 


The gods' protection, but the night before ; 


Like a staff ; 


Follow me weeping to my turf, and there 


And a crook- is in his back, 


Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 


And a melancholy crack 


Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 


In his laugh. 


Devoted to the memory of me ; 




Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep 


I know it is a sin 


Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 


For me to sit and grin 


Robert Herrick. 


At him here. 




But the old three-cornered hat, 




And the breeches, and all that, 




Are so queer ! 


©lie Cast £eaf. 






And if I should live to be 


I SAW him once before, 


The last leaf upon the tree 


As he passed by the door ; 


In the spring. 


And again 


Let them smile, as I do now, 


The pavement-stones resound 


At the old forsaken bough 


As he totters o'er the ground 


Where I cling. 


With his cane. 






Oli\t;r Wendell Holmes. 


They say that in his prime. 




Ere the pruning-knife of time 




Cut him down. 


dDbe on SoUtube. 


Not a better man was found 




By the crier on his round 


Happy the man whose wish and care 


Through the town. 


A few paternal acres bound, 




Content to breathe his native air 


But now he walks the streets, 


In his own ground : 


And he looks at all he meets 




So forlorn ; 


Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. 


And he shakes his feeble head, 


Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 


That it seems as if he said, 


Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 


" They are gone." 


In winter fire : 



i 



MEMORY. 



733 



Blest, who can unconcern dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day : 

Sound sleep by night, study and ease, 

Together mixt. sweet recreation ; 
And innocence, which most does please, 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, imlamented, let me die. 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

ALZXAiTDEB POPK. 



The mother of the muses, we are taught, 

Is memor}' ; she has left me : they remain. 

And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 

About the summer days, my loves of old. 

"Alas I alas I *" is all I can reply. 

Memory has left with me that name alone, 

Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, 

But her bright image in my darkest hour 

Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled. 

Forgotten are the names of visitors 

Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; 

Forgotten are the names of earlier friends 

Whose genial converse and glad countenance 

Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye : 

To these, when I have written, and besought 

Remembrance of me, the word " Dear '' alone 

Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. 

A blessing wert thou. Oblivion. 

If thy stream carried only weeds away. 

But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 

It hurries down to wither on the strand. 

Walter Savage Laxdor. 



tUrittcn at an 2\\n at §cnlcn. 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou found in mansions higher 

Than the low cot or humble inn. 



*Tis here with lx)undless power 1 reign. 
And every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne; 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 

I fly from pomp. I fly from plate. 

I fly from falsehood's specious grin : 
Freedom I love, and form I hate. 

And choose mv lodgings at an inn. 

Here, waiter I take my sordid ore. 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not in store. 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round. 
Where'er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at an inn. 

WiixxAJi Shenstoxe. 



0n Solitnbc. 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 

Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 

Where the poetic birds rejoice. 
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food. 

Pay with their grateful voice. 

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor-seat ! 
Ye country houses and retreat. 
Which all the happy gods so love. 

That for you oft they quit their bright and great 
Metropolis above. 

Here Xature does a house for me erect. 

Nature the wisest architect. 

Who those fond artists does despise 
That can the fair and living trees neglect, 

Yet the dead timber prize. 

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying. 
Hear the soft winds alx>ve me flying 
With all their wanton boughs dispute. 

And the more tuneful birds to both rephing. 
Nor be mvself too mute. 



734 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT AND REFLECTION. 



A silver stream shall roll his waters near, 

GUt with the sunbeams here and there, 
On whose enamelled bank I'll walk, 

And see how prettily they smile, and hear 
How prettily they talk. 

Ah wretched, and too solitary he 

Who loves not his own company ! 
He'll feel the weight of 't many a day, 

Unless he call in sin or vanity 
To help to bear 't away. 

Solitude, first state of human-kind ! 

Which blest remained till man did find 
Even his own helper's company. 

As soon as two (alas ! ) together joined, 
The serpent made up three. 

The god himself, through countless ages thee 
His sole companion chose to be, 
Thee, sacred Solitude alone. 

Before the branchy head of number's tree 
Sprang from the trunk of one. 

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) 
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart, 
Which else would know no settled pace, 

Making it more well managed by thy art 
With swiftness and with grace. 

Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light. 
Dost like a burning-glass unite, 
Dost multiply the feeble heat. 

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright 
And noble fires beget. 

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see 
The monster London laugh at me, 
I should at thee too, foolish city, 

If it were fit to laugh at misery, 
But thy estate I pity. 

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go. 
And all the fools that crowd thee so. 
Even thou who dost thy millions boast, 

A village less than Islington wilt grow, 
A solitude almost. 

Abraham Cowley. 



toaitiuig bs t\\t (©ate. 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone 

by, 
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, 
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood 

and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's 

flight, 
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 

night ; 
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant 

more. 
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 

day is o'er. 

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, 

now, 
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed 

brow; 
His count of years is full, his allotted task is 

wrought ; 
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him 

not. 

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the 

hour 
Of human strength and action, man's courage and 

his power. 
I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the 

golden day, 
And as I look down and listen the sadness wears 

away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, 

throws 
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully 

goes: 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her 

hair, 
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young 

and fair. 

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 
Oh crimson flash of morning that darkens as we 
gaze ! 



THE EXD OF THE PLAY. 



'735 



Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless 

air 
Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies, we know 

not where I 

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and 

then withdrawn : 
But still the sun shines round me; the evening 

bird sings on. 
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient 

gate, 
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and 

wait. 

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group 

go out. 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 

sprightly shout. 
Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 

strows 
Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind 

that blows I 

So come from every region, so enter, side by 

side, 
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men 

of pride. 
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those 

pillars gray. 
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the 

way. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are 

blank with fear. 
And some whose temples brighten with joy in 

drawing near. 
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious 

eye 
Of Him, the sinless teacher, who came for us to die. 

I mark the joy. the terror : yet these, within my 
heart. 

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to de- 
part : 

And. in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and 
lea, 

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

WtLLLOl CrLLEX BrTAKT. 



(Tllc (J:nb of the piag. 

The play is done — the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and ta^k ; 

And. when he 's laughed and said his say. 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that *s any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends — 

Let 's close it with a parting rhyme ; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas-time; 
On life's wide scene you, too. have parts, 

That fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good-night I — with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night I — I'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
I'he triumphs and defeats of lx)ys. 

Arc but repeated in our age : 
I'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those ofmen- 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys — 
With grizzled l^eards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
And if, in time of sacred youth. 

We learned at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school. 

I'd s<iy how fate may change and shift — 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift ; 
The strong may yield, the good may fall. 

The great man be a vulgar clown. 
The knave be liftetl over all. 

Tlie kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the insonitable design ? 
Blessed he He who took and gave ! 



736 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 

i 


Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 


As fits the holy Christmas birth, 


Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 


Be this, good friends, our carol still — 


We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 


Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 


That darkly rules the fate of all, 


To men of gentle will. 


That sends the respite or the blow, 


William Makepeace Thackeray, 


That 's free to give or to recall. 




This crowns his feast with wine and wit — 


(Slime's (fliire. 


Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 


His betters, see, below him sit, 


MouRX, rejoicing heart ! 


Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 


The hours are flying ; 


Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 


Each one some treasure takes, 


To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 


Each one some blossom breaks. 


Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 


And leaves it dying ; 


Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 


The chill, dark night draws near — 




The sun will soon depart. 


So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 


And leave thee sighing, 


Dear hopes, dear friends, untim^ely killed — 


Then mourn, rejoicing heart! 


Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance. 


The hours are flying ! 


And longing passion unfulfilled. 




Amen ! — whatever fate be sent. 


Rejoice, grieving heart ! 


Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 


The hours fly fast — 


Although the head withcares be bent, 


With each some sorrow dies. 


And whitened with the winter snow. 


With each some shadow flies ; 




Until at last 


Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
Let young and old accept their part, 

And bow before the awful will. 
And bear it with an honest heart. 

Who misses, or who wins the prize — 


The red dawn in the east 
Bids weary night depart. 

And pain is past ; 
Rejoice, then, grieving heart ! 

The hours fly fast ! 

Anonymous. 


Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 




But if you fail, or if you rise. 




Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 






^ Pctiti0n Xo iJ^ime. 


A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days : 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth iq gentle men ! 


Touch us gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three — 
(One is lost — an angel fled 
To the azure overhead ! ) 


My song, save this, is little worth ; 


Touch us gently, Time ! 


I lay the weary pen aside, 


We've not proud nor soaring wings, 


And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 


Our ambition, our content, 


As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 


Lies in simple things. 



THERE ABE GAINS FOR ALL OUR LOSSES. ?:{: 


Humble voyagers are we, 


Something beautiful has vanished, 


O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 


And we sigh for it in vain ; 


Seeking only some calm clime ; — 


We behold it everywhere, 


Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 


On the earth, and in the air, 


Barry Cornwall. 


But it never comes again. 




Richard Henry Stoddard. 


Song. 






Sonnet 


Time is a feathered thing, 


^^ V t^t^V h» 


And whilst I praise 


Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 


The sparklings of thy looks, and call them rays, 


Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 


Takes wing — 


Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 


Leaving behind him, as he flies. 


In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 


An unperceived dimness in thine eyes. 


Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing — 




But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat : 


His minutes, whilst they are told, 


Sad are our Joys, for they were sweet in blowing — 


Do make us old ; 


And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet ; 


And every sand of his fleet glass, 


And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 


Increasing age as it doth pass, 


Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 


Insensibly sows wrinkles here, 


And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 


Where flowers and roses did appear. 


A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 




And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize 


Whilst we do speak, our fire 


them — 


Doth into ice expire ; 


Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 


Flames turn to frost ; 


denies them ! 


And ere we can 


Aubrey de Vere. 


Know how our crow turns swan, 




Or how a silver snow 




Springs there where jet did grow, 


®hc Soul's tUcfiancc. 


Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. 


/ 


Anonymous. 


I s AID to sorrow's awful storm. 




That beat against ray breast. 




Rage on ! — thou may 'st destroy this form. 




And lay it low at rest ; 


®l)crc arc (gains for ail onr Cosscs. 


Bvit still the spirit that now brooks 


• 


Thy tempest, raging high, 


There are gains for all our losses — 


Undaunted on its fury looks, 


There are balms for all our pain ; 


With steadfast eye. 


But when youth, the dream, departs, 




It takes something from our hearts, 


I said to penury's meagre train, 


And it never comes again. 


Come on ! your threats I brave ; 




My last poor life-drop you may drain, 


We are stronger and are better, 


And crush me to the grave : 


Under manhood's sterner reign ; 


Yet still the spirit that endures 


Still we feel that something sweet 


Shall uKXik your force the while. 


Followed youth, with flying feet, 


And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 


And will never come again. 
49 


With bitter smile. 



738 POEMS OF SEy^TUIENT AXD REFLECTIOS. 


I said to cold neglect and scorn, 


Whilst eyes that change ere night 


Pass on I I heed you not ; 


Make glad the day. 


Ye may pursue me till my form 


Whilst yet the calm hours creep. 


And being are forgot ; 


Dream thou I and from thy sleep 


Yet still the spirit which you see 


Then wake to weep. 


Undaunted by your wiles, 


Percy Btsshe Shelxet. 


Draws from its own nobility 




Its high-born smiles. 


. 


I said to friendship's menaced blow, 


Stanzas. 


Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; 


My life is like the summer rose 


Thou canst but add one bitter woe 
To those already there ; 


That opens to the morning sky. 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 


Yet still the spirit that sustains 


Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 


This last severe distress, 


Yet on the rose's humble bed 


Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 


TTie sweetest dews of night are shed. 


And scorn redress. 


As if she wept the waste to see — 




But none shall weep a tear for me ! 


I said to death's uplifted dart, 




Aim sure ! oh, why delay f 


My life is like the autumn leaf 


Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 


That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 


A weak, reluctant prey ; 


Its hold is frail — its date is brief. 


For still the spirit, firm and free, 


Restless and soon to pass away I 


Unruffled by this last dismay, 


Yet, ere that leaf shall faU and fade, 


Wrapt in its own eternity, 


The parent tree will mourn its shade. 


Shall pass away. 


The winds bewail the leafless tree — 


Lavinia Stoddard. 


But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 




My life is like the prints which feet 


iUutabilitn. 


Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 


The flower that smiles to-day 


All trace will vanish from the sand ; 


To-morrow dies ; 


Yet, as if grieving to efface 


All that we wish to stay 


All vestige of the human race, 


Tempts, and then flies ; 


On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 


What is this world's delight ? 


But none, alas I shall moum for me ! 


Lightning that mocks the night, 


Richard Henry Wilde. 


Brief even as bright. 


* 


Virtue, how frail it is ! 
Friendship too rare ! 


K'o iHorc. 


Love, how it sells poor bliss 


My wind has turned to bitter north, 


For proud despair ! 


That was so soft a south before ; 


But we, though soon they fall, 


My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 


Survive their joy, and all 


With foggy gloom is clouded o'er ; 


Which ours we call. 


, My gay green leaves are yellow-black 




Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 


Whilst skies are blue and bright. 


For love, departed once, comes back 


Whilst flowers are gay, 


Xo more again, no more. 



ODE TO DUTY. 



739 



A roofless ruin lies my home, 

For winds to blow and rains to pour ; 
One frosty night befell — and lo ! 

I find my summer days are o'er. 
The heart bereaved, of why and how 

Unknowing, knows that yet before 
It had what e'en to memory now 

Returns no more, no more. 

Arthur Hugh Clough, 



0!)be to Dntt). 

Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 

Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove — 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 

Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad hearts I without reproach or blot, 

Who do thy work, and know it not ; 

Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand 
fast ! 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet find that other strength, according to their 

need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 



Through no disturbance of my soul, 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control. 
But in the quietness of thought ; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

1 feel the weight of chance desires, 

My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver I yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 

Nor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 

And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy bondman let rae live 1 

William Wordsworth. 



Song. . 

Oh say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it — 
That nature's form, so dear of old. 

No more has power to charm it : 
Or that the ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still. 

And shared my wild devotion. 

Still oft those solemn scenes 1 view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness — 
Oft look on those wlio Icn-ed them too, 

With fancy's idle gladness ; 
Again I longed to view the liglit 

In nature's features glowing. 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowinir. 



HO 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Stern duty rose, and, frowning, flung 

His leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He muttered as he bound me : 
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given — 

But what have slaves with nature ? " 

Charles Wolfe. 



toll!} tlitts Conging? 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing. 
For the far-off, unattained, and dim. 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
All thy restless yearnings it would still ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw — 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe ; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 
Xo fond voices answer to thine own ; 

Jf no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
Xot by works that give thee world-renown. 

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown ? 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. 
Every day a rich reward will give ; 

Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning. 
When all nature hails the lord of light. 

And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning. 
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? 



Other hands may grasp the field and forest. 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 

But with ferv^ent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 

Xot those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest. 
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit ; 

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit. 

Round her trusting child she fondly flings. 
Harriet Winslow Sewall, 



Cosscs. 

Upon the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim band, 
Telling the losses that their lives had known: 

While evening waned away 

From breezy cliff and bay. 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 

One spake, with quivering lip, 

Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone down ; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face, long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 

And one upon the west 

Turned an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold. 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ; 

And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done. 
There spake among them one, 



SPIXyiXG. 741 


A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 


But whether this l>e seal or sign 


" Sad losses have ye met, 


Within, without. 


But mine is heavier yet ; 


It matters not. The lx)nd divine 


For a believing heart hath gone from me." 


I never doubt. 




I know he set me here, and still, 


" Alas 1 *' these pilgrims said, 


And glad, and blind, I wait his will ; 


" For the living and the dead — 




For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 


But listen, listen, day by day, 


For the wrecks of land and sea ! 


To hear their tread 


But, however it came to thee. 


Who bear the finished web away. 


Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 


And cut the thread, 


Frances Brown. 


And bring God's message in the sun. 




'• Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." 




Helen Hunt Jackson. 


Spinning. 




Like a blind spinner in the sun, 




1 ' 

I tread my days ; 


^nman i^railtn. 


I know that all the threads will run 

Appointed ways ; 
I know each day will bring its task, 
And, being blind, no more I ask. 


Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day. 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 


I do not know the use or name 




Of that I spin : 


The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 


I only know that some one came, 


Vice seems already slain ; 


And laid within 


But passion rudely snaps the string, 


My hand the thread, and said, " Since you 


And it revives again. 


Are blind, but one thing you can do." 






Some foe to his upright intent 


Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 


Finds out his weaker part ; 


And tangled fly. 


Virtue engages his assent. 


I know wild storms are sweeping past, 


But pleasure wins his heart. 


And fear that I 




Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 


'Tis here the folly of the wise 


A safer place, since I am blind. 


Through all his art we view ; 


I know not why, but [ am sure 
That tint and place. 


And while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 


In some great fabric to endure 
Past time and race. 
My threads will have ; so from the first. 


Bound on a voyage of awful length 
And dangers little known. 


Though blind, I never felt accurst. 


A stranger to superior strength, 




Man vainly trusts his own. 


I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 




From one short word 


But oars alone can ne'er prevail 


Said over me when I was young, — 


To reach the distant coast : 


So young. I heard 


The breath of heaven must swell the sail. 


It. knowing not that God's name signed 


Or all the toil is lost. 


My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. 


William Cowper. 



(43 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



tlic (5o0b (5reat illan. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and 
pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
^Yhen any man obtains that which he merits, 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

For shame, ray friend I renounce this idle strain ! 

What woiildst thou have a good great man ob- 
tain ? 

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain, 

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? 

Goodness and greatness are not means, but 
ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 
The great good man ? Three treasures — love, and 
light. 
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or 
night — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

SA3IUEL Taylor Coleridge. 



Sonnets. 

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three -and -twentieth 

year ! 
My hasting days fly on with full career, 

But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth. 
That I to manhood am arrived so near : 
And inward ripeness doth much less appear 

That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th. 

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Toward which time leads me. and the will of 
Heaven : 

All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great task-master's eye. 



ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 

Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! 

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, 
Forget not ! in thy book record their groans 

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 

Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway 

The triple tryant ; that from these may grow 
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way, 

Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dai"k world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide — 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? " 
I fondly ask ; but patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 

Daughteii to that good Earl, once President 
Of England's Council, and her Treasury, 
Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, 
And left them both, more in himself content. 
Till sad the breaking of that Parliament 
Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty. 
Killed with report that old man eloquent : 
Though later born than to have known the days 
Wherein your father flourished yet by you, 
Madam, methinks I see him living yet: 
So well your words his noble virtues praise. 
That all both judge you to relate them true. 
And to possess them, honored Margaret. 

John Milton. 



OH! THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD! 



r48 



©III tl)c pleasant Dans of ©lb! 

Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often peo- 
ple praise ! 

True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our 
modem days: 

Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the walls 
let in the cold ; 

Oh ! how they must have shivered in those pleas- 
ant days of old ! 



Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent 

they were ! 
They threw down and imprisoned kings — to thwart 

them who might dare ? 
They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took from 

Jews their gold — 
Above both law and equity were those great lords 

of old ! 

Oh ! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so 

renowned ! 
With sword and lance, and armor strong, they 

scoured the country round ; 
And whenever aught to tempt them they met by 

wood or wold, 
By right of sword they seized the prize — those 

gallant knights of old ! 

Oh ! the gentle dames of old \ who, quite free from 

fear or pain. 
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their 

champions slain ; 
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made 

them strong and bold — 
Oh ! more like men than women were those gentle 

dames of old ! 

Oh ! those mighty towers of old ! with their tur- 
rets, moat, and keep. 

Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons 
dark and deep. 

Full many a baron held his court within the castle 
holdi 

And many a captive languished there, in those 
strong towers of old. 



Oh ! the troubadours of old ! with their gentle 
minstrelsie 

Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their 
lot might be — 

For years they served their ladye-love ere they 
their passions told — 

Oh ! wondrous patience must have had those trou- 
badours of old ! 

Oh ! those blessed times of old ! with their chivalry 

and state ; 
I love to read their chronicles, which such brave 

deeds relate ; 
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their 

legends told — 

But, Heaven be thanked ! I live not in those blessed 

times of old ! 

Frances Brown. 



®l)c tol)ite Jslaub; 

OR, PLACE OF THE BLEST. 

In this world, the isle of dreams. 
While we sit by sorrow's streams, 
Tears and terrors are our themes, 

Reciting ; 
But when once from hence we flie. 
More and more approaching nigh 
Unto young etemitie. 

Uniting 
In that whiter island, where 
Things are evermore sincere — 
Candor here and lustre there 

Delighting, 
There no monstrous fancies shall 
Out of hell an horror call, 
To create, or cause at all. 

Affrighting ; 
There in calm and cooling sleep 
We our eyes shall never steep, 
But eternal watch shall keep. 

Attending 
Pleasures, sucli as shall pursue 
Me immortalized, and you — 
And fresh joys, as never to 

Have ending, 

Robert IIeurick. 



._ J 



ru 



POEMS OF SEXTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



^rronmore. 

Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 

How oft I dream of thee ! 
And of those days when by thy shore 

I wandered young and free. 
Full many a path I've tried since then, 

Through pleasure's flowery maze, 
But ne'er could find the bliss again 

I felt in those sweet days. 

How blithe upon the breezy cliffs 

At sunny mom I've stood, 
With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along the flood ! 
Or when the western wave grew bright 

With daylight's parting wing, 
Have sought that Eden in its light 

Which dreaming poets sing — 

That Eden where th' immortal brave 

Dwell in a land serene — 
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 

At sunset, oft are seen ; 
Ah dream, too full of saddening truth ! 

Those mansions o'er the main 

Are like the hopes I built in youth — 

As sunny and as vain ! 

Thomas Moore. 



hottest Poucrtn. 

Is there for honest poverty 

Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 
We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp — 
The man 's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 
Wear hodden grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine 
A man 's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 



You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He 's but a coof for a" that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that ; 
The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man 's aboon his might — 
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that ; 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
Are higher ranks than a* that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
May bear the gree, and a' that, 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It 's coming yet, for a' that — 
When man to man. the warld o'er. 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 

Robert Burns. 



CC^ontcmplatc all tliis tX)ork. 

Contemplate all this work of time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth 

As dying nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man — 

Who throve and branched from clime to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he types this work of time 



IS IT COME? 



Within hiinsell', from more to more ; 
And crowned with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not an idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning fears. 
And dipped in baths of hissing tears, 

And battered with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling faun, the sensual feast ! 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



3q it OTotne ? 

Is it come ? they said, on the banks of the Nile, 

Who looked for the world's long-promised day, 
And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil, 

With the desert's sand and the granite gray. 
From the pyramid, temple, and treasured dead, 

We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan ; 
They tell us of the tyrant's dread — 

Yet there was hope when that day began. 

The Chaldee came, with his starry lore, 

And built up Babylon's crown and creed ; 
And bricks were stamped on the Tigris shore 

With signs which our sages scarce can read. 
From Ninus' temple, and Nimrod's tower. 

The rule of the old East's empire spread 
Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power — 

But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian's worshipped flame, 

The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 
And once, on the west a sunrise came, 

When Greece to her freedom's trust was true ; 
With dreams to the utmost ages dear. 

With human gods, and with god-like men, 
No marvel the far-off day seemed near. 

To eyes that looked through her laurels then. 

The Romans conquered, and revelled too. 
Till honor, and faith, and power, wore gone; 

And deeper old Europe's darkness grew. 
As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 



The gown was learning, the sword was law ; 

The people served in the oxen's stead ; 
But ever some gleam the watcher saw, 

And evermore. Is it come ? they said, 

Poet and seer that question caught, 

Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
It marched with letters, it toiled with thought. 

Through schools and creeds which the earth 
forgets. 
And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, 

And traders barter our world away — 
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 

And still, at times, Is it come ? they say. 

The days of the nations bear no trace 

Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place — 

The age is weary with work and gold ; 
And high hopes wither, and memories wane. 

On hearths and altars the fires are dead ; 
But that brave faith hath not lived in vain — 

And this is all that our watcher said. 

Frances Brown. 



Sf tliat tDcrc (True ! 

'Tis long ago, — we have toiled and traded. 

Have lost and fretted, have gained and grieved. 
Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 

But, friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
The poets' dreams and the peasants' stories — 

Oh, never will time that trust renew ! 
Yet they were old on tlie earth before us. 

And lovely tales, — had tiiey been true! 

Some spake of homes in the greenwood liidden. 

Where age was fearless and youth was free — 
Where none at life's board seemed guests unbidden, 

But men had years like the forest tree: 
Goodly and fair and full of summer. 

As lives went by when the world was new, 
Ere ever the angel steps passed from her, — 

Oh, dreamers and bards, if that were true ! 

Some told us of a stainless standard — 
Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 

Whose march was ever in freedc^n's vanguard, 
And not to be staved bv steel or gold. 



746 P0E3IS OF SENTniENT ASD REFLECTIOy. 

■ 


The world to their very g-raves was debtor — 


And pale dog-roses in the hedge. 


The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 


And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 


But there had been neither slave nor fetter 


In puffs of balm the night-air blows 


This day in her realms, had that been tme ! 


The perfume which the day foregoes. 




And on the pure horizon far, ♦ 


Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer : 


See, pulsing with the first-born star, 


They told that life was an honest game, 


The liquid sky above the hill ! 


Where fortune favored the fairest player, 


The evening comes, the fields are still. 


And only the false found loss and blame — 




That men were honored for gifts and graces, 


Loitering and leaping. 


And not for the prizes folly drew ; 


With saunter, with bounds — 


But there would be many a change of places. 


Flickering and circling 


In hovel and hall, if that were true ! 


In files and in rounds — 




Gayly their pine-staff green 


Some said to our silent souls, What fear ye ? 


Tossing in air. 


And talked of a love not based on clay — 


Loose o'er their shoulders white 


Of faith that would neither wane nor weary, 


Showering their hair — 


With all the dust of the pilgrim's day ; 


See ! the wild Mi^nads 


They said that fortune and time were changers, 


Break from the wood, 


But not by their tides such friendship grew ; 


Youth and lacchus 


Oh, we had never been trustless strangers 


Maddening their blood. 


Among our people, if that were true ! 


See ! through the quiet land 




Rioting they pass — 


And yet since the fairy time hath perished. 


Fling the fresh heaps about, 


With all its freshness, from hills and hearts. 


Trample the grass. 


The last of its love, so vainly cherished, 


Tear from the rifled hedge 


Is not for these days of schools and marts. 


Garlands, then- prize ; 


Up, up ! for the heavens still circle o'er ns ; 


Fill with their sports the field, 


There 's wealth to win and there 's work to do, 


Fill with their cries. 


There 's a sky above, and a grave before us — 




And, brothers, beyond them all is true ! 


Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 


Frances Brown. 


Shepherd, why mute ? 




Forth with thy joyous song ! 




Forth with thy flute ! 


!3iucl)anaiia; or, ^\\t ^*'cro ':k%t. 


Tempts not the revel blithe ? 




Lure not their cries ? 


I. 


Glow not their shoulders smooth ? 




Melt not their eyes ? 


The evening comes, the fields are still. 
The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 


Is not, on cheeks like those. 
Lovely the flush ? 


Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
Deserted is the half-mown plain, 
Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain, 


— Ah, so the quiet was ! 
So ivas the hush ! 


The mower's cry, the dog's alarms. 




All housed within the sleeping farms ! 


II. 


The business of the day is done. 


The epoch ends, the world is still. 


The last-left haymaker is gone. 


The age has talked and worked its fiU — 


And from the thyme upon the height, 


The famous orators have shone. 


And from the elder-blossom white 


The famous poets sung and gone, 



THE DAY OF THE LORD. 747 


The lanious men of war have fought, 


Tempts not the bright new age ? 


The famous speculators thought, 


Shines not its stream 1 


The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 


Look, ah, what genius. 


The famous painters filled their wall, 


Art, science, wit ! 


The famous critics judged it all. 


Soldiers like Caesar, 


The combatants are parted now — 


Statesmen like Pitt ! 


Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. 


Sculptors like Phidias, 


The puissant crowned, the weak laid low. 


Raphaels in shoals, 


And in the after-silence sweet. 


Poets like Shakespeare — 


Now strifes arc hushed, our ears doth meet, 


Beautiful souls ! 


Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 


See, on their glowing cheeks 


Of this or that down-trodden name, 


Heavenly the flush ! 


Delicate spirits, pushed away 


— All, so the silence icas ! 


In the hot press of the noonday. 


So was the hush ! 


And o'er the plain, where the dead age 




Did its now silent warfare wage — 


The world but feels the present's spell. 


O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom. 


The poet feels the past as well ; 


Where many a splendor finds its tomb, 


Whatever men have done, might do. 


Many spent fames and fallen nights — 


Whatever thought, might think it too. 


The one or two immortal lights 
Rise slowly up into the sky 


Matthew Arnold. 


To shine there everlastingly, 




Like stars over the bounding hill. 




The epoch ends, the world is still. 


®l)e JDari of tlic £orb. 


Thundering and bursting 


The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand ; 


In torrents, in waves — 


Its storms roll up the sky ; 


Carolling and shouting 


The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold ; 


Over tombs, amid graves — 


All dreamers toss and sigh : 


See ! on the cumbered plain 


The night is darkest before the morn : 


Clearing a stage, 


When the pain is sorest the child is born, 


Scattering the past about. 


And the Day of the Lord is at liand. 


Comes the new age. 




Bards make new poems. 


Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 


Thinkers new schools. 


Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth : 


Statesmen new systems. 


Come ! for tlie Earth is grown coward and old ; 


Critics new rules. 


Come down, and renew us her youth. 


All things begin again ; 


Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 


Life is their prize ; 


Haste to tlie battle-field, stoop from above — 


Earth with their deeds they fill, 


To the Day of the Lord at hand. 


Fill with their cries. 






Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — 


Poet, what ails thee, then ? 


Faniine, and Plague, and War : 


Say. wliy so mute ? 


Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 


Forth witli thy praising voice ! 


Ctather. and fall in the snare I 


Forth with tliy flute ! 


Hireling and Mainmonite, Bigot and Knave, 


Loiterer ! why sittest thou 


Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, 


Sunk in thy dream f 


In the Day of the Lord at hand. 



748 



P0E21S OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 

While the Lord of all ages is here ? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

And those who can suffer can dare. 
Each old age of gold was an iron age too, 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to 
do, 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Charles Kingsley. 



®l)e tnorlb. 



'Tis all a great show, 

The world that we 're in — 
None can tell when 'twas finished, 

None saw it begin ; 
Men wander and gaze through 

Its courts and its halls, 
Like children whose love is 

The picture-hung walls. 

There are flowers in the meadow, 

There are clouds in the sky — 
Songs pour from the woodland, 

The waters glide by ; 
Too many, too many 

For eye or for ear. 
The sights that we see. 

And the sounds that we hear. 

A weight as of slumber 

Comes down on the mind ; 
So swift is life's train. 

To its objects we 're blind ; 
I myself am but one 

In the fleet-gliding show — 
Like others I walk, 

But know not where I go. 

One saint to another 

I heard say, " How long ? " 
I listened, but naught more 

I heard of his song ; 
The shadows are walking 

Through city and plain — 
How long shall the night 

And its shadow remain ? 



How long ere shall shine. 

In this glimmer of things, 
The light of which prophet 

In prophecy sings ? 
And the gates of that city 

Be open, whose sun 
No more to the west 

Its circuit shall run ! 

Jones Vert. 



3t Ipatient. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear against 

the earth ; 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed 

has birth — 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little 

way. 
Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 

blade stands up in the day. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! The germs of mighty 
thought 

Must have their silent undergrowth, must under- 
ground be wrought ; 

But as sure as there 's a power that makes the 
grass appear. 

Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade- 
time shall be here. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — go and watch the 

wheat-ears grow — 
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor 

throe — 
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully 

grown. 
And then again day after day, till the ripened field 

is brown. 

Be patient ! oh, be patient ! — though yet our 

hopes are green. 
The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned 

with sunny sheen. 
Be ripening! be ripening! — mature your silent 

way. 
Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on 

freedom's harvest-day ! 

Anonymous. 



1 

EACH A^'D ALL. 749 




For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 


®l)erc be (^l)osc. 


He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye. 


There be those who sow beside 


The delicate shells lay on the shore : 


The waters that in silence glide, 


The bubbles of the latest wave 


Trusting no echo will declare 


Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 


Whose footsteps ever wandered there. 


And the bellowing of the savage sea 




Greeted their safe escape to me. 


The noiseless footsteps pass away, 


I wiped away the weeds and foam — 


The stream flows on as yesterday ; 


I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 


Nor can it for a time be seen 


But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 


A benefactor there had been. 


Had left their beauty on the shore. 




With the sun, and the sand, and the wild up- 


Yet think not that the seed is dead 


roar. 


Which in the lonely place is spread ; 




It lives, it lives — the spring is nigh. 


The lover watched his graceful maid. 


And soon its life shall testify. 


As 'mid the virgin train she strayed; 




Nor knew her beauty's best attire 


That silent stream, that desert ground, 


Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 


No more unlovely shall be found ; 


At last she came to his hermitage. 


But scattered flowers of simplest grace 


Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; 


Shall sjDread their beauty round the place. 


The gay enchantment was undone — 




A gentle wife, but fairy none. 


And soon or late a time will come 




When witnesses, that now are dumb. 


Then I said, " 1 covet truth ; 


With grateful eloquence shall tell 


Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat — 


From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. 


I leave it behind with the games of youth." 


Bernard Barton. 


As I spoke, beneath my feet 




The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 




Kunning over the club-moss burrs ; 




I inhaled the violet's breath ; 


€acli anb ^11. 


Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 




Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 


Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 


Over me soared the eternal sky, 


Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 


Full of light and of deity ; 


The heifer that lows in the upland farm. 


Again I saw, again I heard, 


Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 


The rolling river, the morning bird ; 


The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 


Beauty through my senses stole — 


Deems not that great Napoleon 


I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 


Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 


Ralph Waldo Emerson, 


Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; 




Nor knowest thou what argument 




Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 




All are needed by each one — 


(j:i)c Cost Cfinrcli. 


Nothing is fair or good alone. 




I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 


In yonder dim and pathless wood 


Singing at dawn on the alder-bough ; 


Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour. 


I brought him home, in his nest, at even. 


And peals of solemn music swell 


He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 


As from some minster's lofty tower. 

1 



750 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



From age to age those sounds are heard. 
Borne on the breeze at twilight hour — 

From age to age no foot hath found 
A pathway to the minster's tower ! 

Late, wandering in that ancient wood, 

As onward through the gloom I trod. 
From all the woes and wrongs of earth 

My soul ascended to its God. 
When lo ! in the hushed wilderness 

I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 
Still, heavenward as my spirit soared, 

Wilder and sweeter rang the knell. 

While thus in holy musings wrapt. 

My mind from outward sense withdrawn. 
Some power had caught me from the earth. 

And far into the heavens upborne. 
Methought a hundred years had passed 

In mystic visions as I lay — 
When suddenly the parting clouds 

Seemed opening wide, and far away. 

No midday sun its glory shed. 

The stars were shrouded from my sight ; 
And lo ! majestic o'er my head, 

A minster shone m solemn light. 
High through the lurid heavens it seemed 

Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, 
Till all its pointed turrets gleamed, 

Far flaming, through the vaulted skies I 

The bell with full resounding peal 

Rang booming through the rocking tower ; 
No hand had stirred its iron tongue. 

Slow swaying to the storm-wind's power. 
My bosom beating like a bark 

Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 
I trod with faltering, fearful joy 

The mazes of the mighty dome. 

A soft light through the oriel streamed 

Like summer moonlight's golden gloom, 
Far through the dusky arches gleamed, 

And filled with glory all the room. 
Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 

Seemed waking from their icy thrall ; 
And many a glory-circled head 

Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 



Low at the altar's foot I knelt. 

Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dread ; 
For, blazoned on the vaulted roof. 

Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 
Yet when I raised my eyes once more, 

The vaulted roof itself was gone — 
Wide open was heaven's lofty door, 

And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 

Wliat visions burst upon my soul, 

What joys unutterable there 
In waves on waves for ever roll 

Like music through the pulseless air — 
These never mortal tongue may tell : 

Let him who fain would prove their power 
Pause when he hears that solemn knell 

Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 

LuDwiG Uhland. (German.) 
Paraphrase of Sabah Helen Whitman. 



^t ilTibcr iHontli. 

The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer 

of rustling weeds. 
Where the waves of a golden river wind home by 

the marshy meads ; 
And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint 

with a sickly breath, 
As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the 

dews of death. 
We came to the silent city, in the glare of the 

noontide heat. 
When the sound of a whisper rang through the 

length of the lonely street ; 
No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor 

sound. 
But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the 

barren ground. 

There are shrines under these green hillocks to the 

beautiful gods that sleep. 
Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives 

gone out on the deep ; 
And here in the grave street sculptured, old record 

of loves and tears, 
By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a 

thousand years. 



AT TIBER MOUTH. 



751 



Nor ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze, 
Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home 

from a hundred seas, 
For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh 

birds breed in her bay, 
And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has 

passed away. 

But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from 

the windy shore, 
So the song that the years have silenced grows 

musical there once more ! 
And now and again unburied, like some still voice 

from the dead, 
They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a 

marble head. 
But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered 

away at will, 
And thought of the breathing marble and the 

words that are music still. 

How full were their lives that labored, in their 

fetterless strength and far 
From the ways that our feet have chosen as the 

sunlight IS from the star. 
They clung to the chance and promise that once 

while the vears are free 
Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over 

the sea, 
But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for 

unclouded skies. 
And while we are deep in dreaming, the light that 

was o'er us dies ; 
We know not what of the present we shall stretch 

out our hand to save. 
Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the 

life we have ; 
And yet if the chance were with us to gather the 

days misspent. 
Should we change the old resting-places, the 

wandering ways we went ? 
They were strong, but the years are stronger ; they 

are grown but a name that tiirills. 
And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like 

over their hills. 
So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary 

heart of the past. 
For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap 

so little at last. 



And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long 

colonnade of pines. 
Where the skies peep in, and the sea with a flitting 

of silver lines. 
And we came on an open place in the green, deep 

heart of the wood. 
Where I think in the years forgotten an altar 

of Faunus stood ; 
From a spring in the long, dark grasses two rivulets 

rise and run 
By the length of their sandy borders where the 

snake lies coiled in the sun. 
And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the 

grass like snow. 
And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson 

cyclamens grow ; 
Far up from their wave-home yonder the sea-winds 

murmuring pass, 
The branches quiver and creak, and the lizard 

starts in the grass. 
And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our 

cheeks with flowers, 
While the sun went over our heads, and we took no 

count of the hours ; 
From the end of the waving branches and under 

the cloudless blue, 
Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread- 
like gossamers flew. 
And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt 

that our world was young 
With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow 

of life unsung. 
So we passed with a sound of singing along to the 

seaward way, 
Where the sails of the fishermen folk came home- 
ward over the bay ; 
For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the 

sea-god's shrine, 
And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby 

line. 
But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed 

from the fading shores, 
And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the 

golden blades of the oars, 
And it seemed, as we steered for the sunset, that 

we passed through a twilight sea, 
From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light 

of a world to ])e. 

Rennell Rodd. 



io:^ 



P0E3IS OF SEXTUIEXT AXJD REFLECTION. 



QL[)c C5arbcn of £otJe. 

I WENT to the garden of love, 

And saw what I never had seen ; 
A chapel was built in the midst, 

Where I used to play on the green. 

And the gate of this chapel was shut, 

And " thou shalt not " writ over the door; 

So I turned to the garden of love. 
That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves, 

And tomb-stones where flowers should be ; 
And priests in black gowns were walking their 
rounds. 
And binding with briers my joys and desires. 

William Blake. 



^\)c Problem. 

I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl — 
I love a prophet of the soul : 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; 
Yet not for all his faith can see, 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 
Why should the vest on him allure 
Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below — 

The canticles of love and woe ; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew — 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 



Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 

Painting with morn each annual cell f 

Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 

To her old leaves new myriads? 

Such and so grew these holy piles. 

Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 

As the best gem upon her zone ; 

And morning opes with haste her lids 

To gaze upon the pyramids ; 

O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 

As on its friends, with kindred eye : 

For out of thought's interior sphere 

These wonders rose to upper air ; 

And nature gladly gave them place. 

Adopted them into her race. 

And granted them an equal date 

W^ith Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass — 

Art might obey, but not surpass. 

The passive master lent his hand 

To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 

And the same power that reared the shrine 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 

In groves of oak, or fanes of gold. 

Still floats upon the moniing wind, 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 

The heedless world hath never lost. 

I know what say the fathers wise — 

The book itself before me lies — 

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 

And he who blent both in his line. 

The younger golden lips or mines — 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ; 

His words are music in my ear — 

I see his cowled portrait dear : 

And yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 

Ralph Waldo Emebson. 



1 



i 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY XIGHT. 



753 



^\\t Cotter's Gatnrbap Xigtit. 

Let not ambition mock their osefnl toil. 

Their homely jojs and destinv obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a dLsdainf ol smile. 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

Gray. 

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend I 

Xo mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways — 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there. 
I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short 'ning winter day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh. 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose. 
The toil-worn c-otter frae his labor goes — 

This night his weekly moil is at an end — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the mom in ease and rest to spend ; 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree : 

Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro' 
To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee. 

His wee bit ingle blinkin* bonnOie, 

His clean hearth-stane. his thriftie wifie's smile. 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his wearv, c-arkin? cares bearuile. 
An* makes him quite forget his labor and his 
toiL 

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in — 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh. some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee. 
Comes hame. perhaps, to shew a braw new gown. 

Or deposite her sair-won penny fee. 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
50 



Wi* joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weeifare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years — 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; 

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: 

Their masters' and their mistresses* command 
The younkers a' are warned to obey. 

An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play. 

An' oh I be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
An* mind your duty. duly, mom an' night I 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright! 

But hark I a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 

To do some errands, and c-onvoy her harae. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee. and flush her cheek : 
Wi' heartstruck anxious care, inquires his name. 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 

Weel pleased the mother hears it *s nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome. Jenny brings him ben — 
A strappan youth, he taks the mother's eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye : 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have : 
The mother, wi* a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 

grave — 
Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like 
the lave, 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart -felt raptures I bliss beyond compare I 
Fve paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 



754 



FOEJIS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
evening gale. 

Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth 1 

Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled 1 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child — 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild f 

But now the supper crowns their simple board : 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 

The soup their only hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud ; 

The dame brings forth, m complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, 

An' aft he 's pressed, and aft he ca's it good ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And " Let us worship God ! " he says with sol- 
emn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim ; 
Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame — 

The sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 



The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise — 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page : 

How Abraham was the friend of God on 
high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny : 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 

How his first followers and servants sped — 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal king, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " 

That thus they all shall meet in future 
days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear — 
Together hymning their creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear, 

While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace except the heart ! 
The power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
soul. 

And in his book of life the inmates poor en- 
roll. 



HALLOWED GROUyD. 



(•).) 



Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clarn'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide — 

But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings — 

•' An honest man *s the noblest work of God ; " 
And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
What is a lordling's pomp f a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- 
fined I 

Scotia I my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is 
sent I 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet con- 
tent ! 
And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion weak and vile I 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved isle. 

thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 
heart — 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part — 

(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art — 
His friend, inspirer. guardian, and reward !) 

Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and 

guard ! 

Robert Bi'rnsi. 



What "s hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That "s hallowed ground where, mourned and 

missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed : 
But where "s their memory's mansion ? Is 't 

Yon churchyard bowers ? 
Xo I in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated liearts are mutual bound; 
The spot where love's first links were wound 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallowed, down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven I 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould, 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself l^e cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep f 
"Tis not the sculptured piles you heap I 
In dews that heavens far distant weep, 

Their turf may bloom. 
Or genii twine Ijeneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 

And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is *t death to fall for freedom's riirht f 
lie 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 



...J 



756 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And murder sullies in heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome war to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
Tlie cause of truth and human weal, 

God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To peace and love. 

Peace ! love I — the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ! 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. 

Where they are not : 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 
And pompous rites in domes august? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there 's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured nature's ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. 
And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 



Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time : 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason, on his mortal clime, 

Immortal dawn. 

What 's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth I — 
Peace, independence, truth, go forth. 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

AH hallowed ground ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



®l)e ^apps Cife. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will, 

Whose armor is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are. 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 

Untied unto the worldly care 

Of public fame or private breath ! 

Who envies none that chance doth raise. 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise, 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from humors freed. 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
Nor ruin make accusers great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend : 



JlAy. 757 


This man is freed from servile bands 


All things unto our flesh are kinde 


Of hope to rise, or fear to fall — 


In their descent and being — to our minde 


Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 


In their ascent and cause. 


And, having nothing, yet hath all. 




Sir Hexrt Wottox. 


Each thing is full of dutie : 




Waters united are our navigation — 




Distinguished, our habitation ; 


ilTan. 


Below, our drink — alx)ve. our meat ; 




Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such beautie ? 


My God, I heard this day 


Then how are all things neat I 


Thar none doth build a stately habitation 




But he that means to dwell therein. 


More servants wait on man 


What house more stately hath there been, 


Than he'll take notice of. In everv path 


Or can be, than is man, to whose creation 


* 1 

He treads down that which doth befriend him i 

1 


All things are in decay ? 


When sickness makes him pale and wan. 




mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 


For man is every thing. 


Another to attend him. 


And more : he is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 




A beast, yet is, or should be, more — 


Since then, my God, thou hast 


Reason and speech we only bring. 


So brave a palace built, oh dwell in it, 


Parrots mav thank us. if thev are not mute — 


That it may dwell with thee at last ! 


They go upon the score. 


Till then afford us so much wit 




That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, 


Man is all symmetric — 

A' 


And both thy servants be. 


Full of proportions, one limb to another. 


George Herbert. 


And all to all the world besides. 




Each part may call the farthest brother ; 




For head with foot hath private amitie, 




And both with moons and tides. 


Sccb-iTimc iinb i^arncst. 


Nothing hath got so farre 


As o'er his furrowed fields, which lie 


But man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 


Beneath a coldly-dropping sky. 


His eyes dismount the highest starre ; 


Yet chill with winter's melted snow. 


He is in little all the sphere. 


The husbandman goes forth to sow : 


Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 




Finde their acquaintance there. 


Thus, freedom, on the bitter blast 




The ventures of thy seed we cast, 


For us the winds do blow, 


And trust to warmer sun and rain 


The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 


To swell the germ and fill the grain. 


flow. 




Nothing we see but means our good, 


Who calls thy glorious service hard ? 


As our delight, or as our treasure ; 


Who deems it not its own reward I 


The whole is either our cupboard of food 


VN ho, for its trials, counts it less 


Or cabinet of pleasure. 


A cause of praise and thankf uhiess ? 


The starres have us to bed — 


It may not be our lot to wield 


Xight draws the curtain, which the sunne with- 


The sickle in the ripened field ; 


draws. 


Xor GUI'S to hear, on sumiMorcves, 


Musick and light attend our head ; 


The reaper's song among tlie sheaves; 



758 P0E2IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


Yet where our duty's task is wrought 


TTT 


In unison with God's great thought, 


XXJ.a 


The near and future blend in one, 


Now, while the birds thus sing a Joyous 


And whatsoe'er is willed is done ! ♦ 


song. 




And while the young lambs bound 


And ours the grateful service whence 


As to the tabor's sound. 


Comes, day by day, the recompense — 


To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 


The hope, the trust, the purpose staid. 


A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 


The fountain, and the noonday shade. 


And I again am strong. 




The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 


And were this life the utmost span, 


steep — 


The only end and aim of man, 


No more shall grief of mine the season 


Better the toil of fields like these 


wrong. 


Than waking dream and slothful ease. 


I hear the echoes through the mountains 




throng ; 


Our life, though falling like our grain, 


The winds come to me from the fields of 


Like that revives and springs again ; 


sleep. 


And early called, how blessed are they 


And all the earth is gay ; 


Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! 


Land and sea 


John Greenleaf Whittier. 


Give themselves up to jollity ; 




And with the heart of May 




Doth every beast keep holiday ; — . 




Thou child of joy, 


(I)5e. 


Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 




happy shepherd boy ! 


INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS 




OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 


IV. 


I. 


Ye blessed creatures ! I have heard the call 




Ye to each other make ; 1 see 


There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 


The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 


The earth, and every common sight. 


My heart is at your festival, 


To me did seem 


My head hath its coronal — 


Apparelled in celestial light — 


The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While earth herself is adorning, 


The glory and the freshness of a dream. 


It is not now as it hath been of yore : 


Turn wheresoe'er I mav, 


mi ■ j_ "> r * 


, 7 


Ihis sweet May-mornmg, 


By night or day, 


And the children are culling 


The things which I have seen, I now can see no more. 


On every side, 




In a thousand valleys far and wide. 


II. 


Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. 


Tlie rainbow comes and goes, 


And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 


And lovely is the rose ; 


I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 


The moon doth with delight 


— But there 's a tree, of many one. 


Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 


A single field which I have looked upon — 


Waters on a starry night 


Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 


Are beautiful and fair ; 


The pansy at my feet 


The sunshine is a glorious birth; 


Doth the same tale repeat. 


But yet I know, where'er I go, 


Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 


That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 


Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



I 



ODE. 



7o0 



V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar, 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows — 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fadiB into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind ; 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 

Some fragment from his droam of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral — 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song. 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife : 
But it will not be long 



Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part — 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie. 

Thy soul's immensity ! 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 

Thy heritage ! thou eje among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ! — 
Mighty prophet ! Seer blest, 
On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave I 

Thou over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 

A presence which is not to be put by ! 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 
voke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly 

freight. 
And custom lie upon tiiee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX. 

Oh joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live. 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not, indeed. 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast — 

Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise ; 



760 P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 


But for those obstinate questionings 


XT 


Of sense and outward things, 


^LX. 


Fallings from us, vanishings. 


And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. 


Blank misgivings of a creature 


Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 


Moving about in worlds not realized, 


Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 


High instincts, before which our mortal nature 


I only have relinquished one delight 


Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised — 


To live beneath your more habitual sway. 


But for those first affections. 


I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 


Those shadowy recollections. 


Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 


Which, be they what they may. 


The innocent brightness of a new-born day 


Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 


Is lovely yet ; 


Are yet a master light of all our seeing. 


The clouds that gather round the setting sun 


Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 


Do take a sober coloring from an eye 


Our noisy years seem moments in the being 


That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 


Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. 


Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 


To perish never — 


Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 


Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 


Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 


Nor man nor boy. 


To me the meanest flower that blows can give 


Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 


Thoughts that do often lie too deep foi- tears. 


Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 


William Wordsworth. 


Hence in a season of calm weather, 




Though inland far we be, 




Our souls have sight of that immortal sea ; 




Which brought us hither — 


@:i)e Ciglit of Stars. 


Can in a moment travel thither, 




And see the children sport upon the shore. 


The night is come, but not too soon ; 


And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 


And sinking silently, 




All silently, the little moon 


X. 


Drops down behind the sky. 


Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a Joyous song ! 


There is no light in earth or heaven, 


And let the young lambs bound 


But the cold light of stars; 


As to the tabor's sound ! 


And the first watch of night is given 


We in thought will join your throng. 


To the red planet Mars. 


Ye that pipe and ye that play. 




Ye that through your hearts to-day 


Is it the tender star of love ? 


Feel the gladness of the May ! 


The star of love and dreams ? 


What though the radiance which was once so bright 


Oh no ! from that blue tent above 


Be now for ever taken from my sight, 


A hero's armor gleams. 


Though nothing can bring back the hour 




Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower — 


And earnest thoughts within rae rise, 


We will grieve not, rather find 


When I behold afar, 


Strength in what remains behind : 


Suspended in the evening skies, 


In the primal sympathy 


The shield of that red star. 


Which, having been, must ever be; 




In the soothing thoughts that spring 


star of strength ! I see thee stand 


Out of human suffering ; 


And smile upon my pain ; 


In the faith tliat looks through death, 


Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 


In years that bring the philosophic mind. 


And I am strong again. 



OFT ly THE STILLY SIGHT. 



701 



Within my breast there is no light. 

But the cold light of stars : 
I give the first watch of the night 

To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou. too. whosoe'er thou art. 
That readest this brief psalm. 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm I 

Oh fear not in a world like this. 

And thou shalt know ere long. 
Know how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer and be strong. 

Hexrt Wadsworth LoxGrEixow. 



(I>ft in the Stillt} ^^igllt. 

Oft in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of lx)yhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken : 
The eyes that shone. 
Xow dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I rememl)er all 

The friends, so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintrj* weather, 

I feel like one 

Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 

Whose lights are fled. 

Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 



Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory bnngs the light 

Of other days around me. 

TflOXAS HOORE. 



Xight. 

Whex I survey the bright 

Celestial sphere. 
So rich with jewels hung that night 

Doth like an Ethiop bride appear. 

My soul her wings doth spread, 

And heavenward fl.ies, 
The Almighty's mysteries to read 

In the large volume of the skies. 

For the bright firmament 

Shoots forth no flame 
So silent but is eloquent 

In speaking the Creator's name ; 

Xo unregarded star 

Contracts its light 
Into so small character, 

Removed far from our human sight. 

But if we steadfast look. 

We shall discern 
In it, as in some holy lx>ok. 

How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 

It tells the conqueror 

That far-fetched power, 
WTiich his proud dangers traffic for. 

Is but the triumph of an hour — 

That from the farthest north 

Some nation may. 
Yet undiscovered, issue forth. 

And o'er his new-got conquest sway ! 

Some nation, yet shut in 

With hills of ice. 
May l)e let out to scourge his sin. 

Till they shall equal him in vice. 



763 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And they likewise shall 

Their ruin have ; 
For as yourselves your empires fall, 

And every kingdom hath a grave. 

There those celestial fires, 

Though seeming mute, 
The fallacy of our desires 

And all the pride of life confute. 

For they have watched since first 

The world had birth, 
And found sin in itself accurst, 

And nothing permanent on earth. 

William Habington. 



^11^0 toell! 

Eight bells ! Eight bells ! their clear tone tells 

The midnight hour is here. 
And as they cease, these words of peace 

Fall gently on my ear : 

"All's well! All 'swell!" 

Fond thoughts fly far, where loved ones are, 

Though distant, ever near, 
From those dear homes the echo comes, 

Our longing hearts to cheer : 
" All 's well ! All 's well ! " 

Swift through the deep our course we keep, 

To shores unseen we steer. 
No thought of ill our souls shall chill. 

Nor wind nor wave we fear : 
" All 's well ! All 's well ! " 

Thus o'er life's sea our voyage may be 

A pathway lone and drear, 
Through tempest loud and sorrow's cloud, 

Faith still shall whisper near : 
"All 'swell! All's well!" 

And when for me, earth, sky, and sea 

Shall fade and disappear, 
May this sweet note still downward float. 
From some undying sphere : 
"All's well! All 'swell!" 

William Allen Butler. 



iEt)e Sturbg Bock, for all l)is Strcngtl). 

The sturdy rock, for all his strength, 
By raging seas is rent in twain ; 

The marble stone is pierced at length 
With little drops of drizzling rain ; 

The ox doth yield unto the yoke ; 

The steel obey'th the hammer-stroke ; 

The stately stag, that seems so stout, 
By yelping hounds at bay is set ; 

The swiftest bird that flies about 
Is caught at length in fowler's net ; 

The greatest fish in deepest brook 

Is soon deceived with subtle hook ; 

Yea ! man himself, unto whose will 
All things ai'e bounden to obey. 

For all his wit and worthy skill 
Doth fade at length, and fall away : 

There is no thing but time doth waste — 

The heavens, the earth consume at last. 

But virtue sits triumphing still 
Upon the throne of glorious fame ; 

Though spiteful death man's body kill. 
Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. 

By life or death, whatso betides, 

The state of virtue never slides. 

Anonymous. 



birtue. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ! 
Thy root is ever in its grave — 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
Thy music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 



i 

I 



THE HERMIT. 



768 



Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 

Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



IIIetttl)'s i^inal Conquest. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate — 
Death lays his icy hands on kings ; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield — 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath. 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds, 
Upon death's purple altar, now. 
See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb. 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 

James Shirley. 



At the close of the day, wlien the hamlet is still, 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulncss prove. 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the 
grove, 
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar. 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit be- 
gan; 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man : 



" Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay — 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to 
mourn ! 
Oh soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass 
away ! 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 



" Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 
The moon, half extinguished, her crescent dis- 
plays ; 
But lately I marked when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her 
blaze. 
Boll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pur- 
sue 
The path that conducts thee to splendor again ! 
But man's faded glory what change shall re- 
new % 
Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. 
I mourn — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for 
you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering 
with dew. 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn — 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering 
urn % 
Oh when shall day dawn on the night of the 
grave ? 

" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science be- 
trayed, 
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. 
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to 
shade, 
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
' Oh pity, great Father of light.' then I cried, 
' Tliy creature, who fain would not wander from 
thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst 
free.' 



764 POEMS OF SENTUIENT AXD REFLECTION. 


" And darkness and doubt are now flying a-waj : 


In a voice so sweet and clear 


No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 


That I could not choose but hear — 


So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 




The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 


Songs of triumph, and ascriptions. 


See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, 


Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 


And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 


When upon the Red Sea coast 


On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are 


Perished Pharaoh and his host. 


blending, 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 


And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 


James Beattie. 


For its tones by turns were glad, 




Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. ; 


OTlie Strife. 


Paul and Silas, in their prison. 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen ; 


The wish that of the living whole 


And an earthquake's arm of might 


No life may fail beyond the grave, 


Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 


Derives it not from what we have 
The likest God within the soul ? 


But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the slave this glad evangel ? 


Are God and nature then at strife, 


And what earthquake's arm of might ' 


That nature lends such evil dreams ? 


Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 


So careful of the type she seems, 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


So careless of the single life, 




That I, considering everywhere 




Her secret meaning in her deeds, 


^\]c Sleep. 


And finding that of fifty seeds 




She often brings but one to bear — 


Of all the thoughts of God that are 




Borne inward unto souls afar. 


I falter where I firmly trod ; 


Along the Psalmist's music deep, 


And, falling with my weight of cares 


Now tell me if that any is 


Upon the great world's altar-stairs, 
That slope through darkness up to God, 


For gift or grace surpassing this — 
" He giveth his beloved sleep." 


I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 


What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep — 
The senate's shout to patriot's vows — 


Alfred Tennyson. 


The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? 




" He giveth his beloved sleep." 


®l)e SlatJC Singing at iHibnigl)t. 


What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 


Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 


A little dust to overweep — 


He, a negro and enslaved — 


And bitter memories, to make — 


Sang of Israel's victory, 


The whole earth blasted for our sake ! — 


Sang of Zion, bright and free. 


'' He giveth his beloved sleep." 


In that hour when night is calmest, 


" Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say. 


Sang he from the Hebrew psalmist, 


But have no tune to charm away 



I 



i 



AN OLD POET TO SLEEP. 



r65 



Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of drear}^ noises ! 
men, with wailing in your voices ! 
delved gold the wallers' heap ! 

strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

" And giveth his beloved sleep." 

His dew drops mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Yea ! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 

That sees through tears the juggler's leap, 
Would now its wearied vision close — 
Would, childlike, on his love repose 

Who " giveth his beloved sleep." 

And friends ! — dear friends ! — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall " — 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Barrett BROWNrNO. 



^Xi (©lb Poet to Sleep. 

No god to mortals oftener descends 
Than thou, Sleep ! yet thee the sad alone 
Invoke, and gratefully thy gift receive. 
Some thou invitest to explore the sands 



Left by Pactolus ; some to climb up higher, 
Where points ambition to the pomps of war ; 
Others thou watchest while they tighten robes 
Which law throws round them loose, and they 

meanwhile 
Wink at a judge, and he the wink returns. 
Apart sit fewer, whom thou lovest more 
And leadest where unruffled rivers flow, 
Or azure lakes 'neath azure skies expand. 
These have no wider wishes, and no fears, 
Unless a fear, in turning to molest 
The silent, solitary, stately swan. 
Disdaining the garrulity of groves 
Nor seeking shelter there from sun or storm. 

Me also hast thou led among such scenes. 
Gentlest of gods ! and age appeared far off 
While thou wast standing close above the couch, 
And whispered 'st, in whisper not unheard, 
" I now depart from thee, but leave behind 
My own twin-brother, friendly as myself, 
Who soon shall take my place ; men call him Death. 
Thou hearest me, nor tremblest, as most do ; 
In sooth, why shouldst thou ? What man hast thou 

wronged 
By deed or word? Few dare ask this within." 

There was a pause ; then suddenly said Sleep, 
" He whom I named approacheth, so farewell." 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Sleep. 

Weep ye no more, sad fountains ! 

What need you flow so fast ? 
Look how the snowy mountains 
Heaven's sun doth gently waste. 
But my sun's heavenly eyes 
View not your weeping, 
That now lies sleeping 
Softly, now softly lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep is a reconciling, 
A rest that peace begets : 

Doth not the sun rise smiling. 
When fair at even he sets f 



766 POEMS OF SEXTUIEyT AND REFLECTION, 


Rest you then, rest, sad eyes — 


And up she raised her head ; 


Melt not in weeping. 


And, peering through the deep wood maze 


While she lies sleeping 


With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze. 


Softly, now softly lies 


" Will she not come ? " she said. 


Sleeping. 




John Dowland. 


Just then, the parting boughs between. 




A little maid's light form was seen. 




All breathless with her speed ; 


Cife anb Deatl). 


And, following close, a man came on 




(A portly man to look tipon), 


Life and Death are sisters fair ; 


Who led a panting steed. 


Yes, they are a lovely pair. 




Life is sung in joyous song ; 


" Mother ! " the little maiden cried. 


While men do her sister wrong, 


Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 


Calling her severe and stern, 


And kissed her clay-cold cheek — 


While her heart for them doth burn ; 


" I have not idled in the town, 


Weave, then, weave a grateful wreath, 


But long went wandering up and down. 


For the sisters Life and Death. 


The minister to seek. 


If fair Life her sister lost, 


" They told me here, they told me there — 


j~\ I T T II 


1 think thev mocked me evervwhere ; 


On a boundless ocean tost. 


«. %. f 




And when 1 found his home. 


She would rove in great unrest. 
Missing that warm loving breast. 




And begged him on my bonded knee 


Now, when scared by wild alarms. 


To bring his book and come with me, 


3 .'7 

She can seek her sister's arms — 


Mother ! he would not come. 


To that tender bosom flee. 




Sink to sleep in ecstasy. 


" I told him how you dying lay, 


Anonymous. 


And could not go in peace away 




Without the minister ! 




I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, 




But oh ! my heart was fit to break — 


®lie (Srccnujoob Slirift. 


Mother ! he would not stir. 


Outstretched beneath the leafy shade 


" So, though my tears were blinding me, 


Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade 


I ran back, fast as fast could be. 


A dying woman lay ; 


To come again to vou : 


Three little children round her stood. 


And here — close by — this squire I met, 


And there went up from the greenwood 


Who asked (so mild) what made me fret ; 


A woful wail that day. 


And when 1 told him true, — 


" mother ! " was the mingled cry, 


" ' I will go with you, child,' he said, 


" mother, mother ! do not die. 


' God sends me to this dying-bed ' — 


And leave us all alone." 


Mother, he 's here, hard by." 


" My blessed babes ! " she tried to say — 


While thus the little maiden spoke, 


But the faint accents died away 


The man, his back against an oak. 


In a low sobbing moan. 


Looked on with glistening eye. 


And then, life struggled hard with death, 


The bridle on his neck hung free, 


And fast and strong she drew her breath. 


With quivering flank and trembling knee, 



i 



THE SOXG OF THE DEVAS TO 


PRINCE SIDDARTHA. 767 


Pressed close his bonny bay ; 




Who reined their coursers back, 


A statelier man — a statelier steed — 




Just as they found the long astray, 


Never on greensward paced, I rede, 




Who, in the heat of chase that day, 


Than those stood there that day. 




Had wandered from their track. 


So, while the little maiden spoke, 




But each man reined his pawing steed, 


The man, his back against an oak. 




And lighted down, as if agreed, 


Looked on with glistening eye 




In silence at his side ; 


And folded arms, and in his look 




And there, uncovered all, they stood — 


Something that, like a sermon-book. 




It was a wholesome sight and good 


Preached — "All is vanity." 




That day for mortal pride. 


But when the dying woman's face 




For of the noblest of the land 


Turned toward him with a wishful gaze. 




Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band ; 


He stepped to where she lay ; 




And, central in the ring, 


And, kneeling down, bent over her, 




By that dead pauper on the ground. 


Saying — "I am a minister. 




Her ragged orphans clinging round, 


My sister I let us pray." 




Knelt their anointed king. 

Robert and Caroline Southet. 


And well, withouten book or stole 






(God's words were printed on his soul !) 






Into the dying ear 






He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, 


iJlie 


Song of the Ocuas to Wrincc Sib- 


The things that unto life pertain, 




4? ' ►• 

bartl]a. 


And death's dark shadows clear. 






We 


are the voices of the wandering wind. 


He spoke of sinners' lost estate, 


Which moan for rest and rest can never find ; 


In Christ renewed, regenerate — 


Lo! 


as the wind is, so is mortal life, i 


Of God's most blest decree, 


A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife. 


That not a single soul should die 






Who turns repentant, with the cry 


Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know. 


" Be merciful to me." 


Nor 


where life springs nor whither life doth go ; 




We 


are as ye are, ghosts from the inane, 


He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, 


What pleasure have we of our changeful pain ? 


Endured but for a little while 






In patience, faith, and love — 


What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss ? 


Sure, in God's own good time, to be 


Nay 


^ if love lasted, there were joy in this ; 


Exchanged for an eternity 


But life's way is the wind's way, all these things 


Of happiness above. 


Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings. 


Then — as the spirit ebbed away — 


Maya's son ! because we roam the earth 


He raised his hands and eyes to pray 


Moan we upon these strings : we make no mirth. 


That peaceful it might pass; 


So many woes we see in many lands : 


And then — the orphans' sobs alone 


So many streaming eyes and wringing hands. 


Were heard, and they knelt, every one, 






Close round on the green grass. 


Yet 


mock we while we wail, for, could they know, 




Thi 


5 life they cling to is but empty show : 


Such was the sight their wandering eyes 


'Tw 


ere all as well to bid a cloud to stand, 


Beheld, in heart -struck, mute surprise, 


Or hold a running river with the hand. 



768 



POEMS OF SEXTUlEyT AXD REFLECTION. 



But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh ! 
The sad world waiteth in its misery, 
The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain ; 
Rise, Maya's child ! wake ! slumber not again ! 

We are the voices of the wandering wind ; 
Wander thou, too, Prince, thy rest to find ; 
Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sake 
Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make. 

So sigh we, passing o'er the silver strings, 
To thee who know'st not yet of earthly things ; 
So say we ; mocking, as we pass away, 
These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play. 

Edwin Arnold. 



^ Psalm of Cife. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO 
THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
" Life is but an empty dream ! " 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle, 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the living present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 



Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time — 

Footprints that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing. 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 



ills Dags among tlie X^cab. 

My days among the dead are passed 

Around me I behold. 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast. 

The mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they. 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead ; with them 

I live in long-past years ; 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears, 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the dead ; anon 

My place with them will be, 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all futurity : 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
That will not perish in the dust. 

Egbert Southbt. 



1 



KIXG ROBERT OF SICILY. 



r69 



Sit botrni, 5ab Sonl. 

Sit down, sad soul, and count 

The moments flying ; 
Come — tell the sweet amount 

That 's lost bv sighino: I 
How many smiles f — a score ? 
Then laugh and count no more ; 

For day is dying ! 

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 

And no more measure 
The flight of time, nor weep 

The loss of leisure ; 
But here, by this lone stream. 
Lie down with us, and dream 

Of starry treasure I 

"VTe dream : do thou the same ; 

We love — for ever ; 
We laugh, yet few we shame — 

The gentle never. 
Stay, then, till sorrow dies ; 
Then — hope and happy skies 

Are thine for ever I 

Barry Cornwall. 



£ifc. 

We are bom ; we laugh : we weep ; 

We love ; we droop : we die I 
Ah I wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

WTiy do we live or die ? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Whv do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die I 

We toil — through pain and wrong: 

We fight — and fly: 
We love : we lose : and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
life I is all thy song 

"Endure and — die?" 

Barht Cork-wall. 



5^ 



^n '^ngcl in tl)c i^onsc. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright. 
Or dying of the dreadiul beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
Xews of dear friends, and children who have never 
Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. 
Alas I we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths — angels, that are to be, 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air : 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 

Leigh Huxt. 



V\ing Uobcrt of Giciln. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Url>ane 
And Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, 
Apparelled in magnificent attire. 
With retinue of many a knight and squire, 
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 
And as he listened o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 
He caught the words, '' Deposuit potentes 
De sede, et exaltavit htimiks;" 
And slowly lifting up his kingly head. 
He to a learned clerk Ijeside him sjiid. 
'' What mean these words?" the clerk made an- 
swer meet, 
" He has put down the mighty from their seat. 
And has exalted them of low degree.*' 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" Tis well that such seditious words are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue : 
F(ir unto priests and people be it known. 
There is no power can push me from my throne I " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

"^lien he awoke, it was already night : 

The church was empty, and there was no light. 



7(j 



POEMS OF SEyTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOy. 



Save where the lamps that glimmered, few and faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 
The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer. 
Came with his lantern, asking. " Who is there ? "' 
Half choked with rage. King Robert fiercely said, 
'• Open : 'tis I, the king I Ait thou afraid i " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
'• This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
iTurned the great key and flung the portal wide : 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak. 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre fi-om his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire. 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate. 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate: 
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his 

rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page. 
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair. 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 
.Until at last he reached the banquet-room. 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 
There on the dais sat another king. 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet -ring, 
King Robert's self in features, form, and height. 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise. 
Though none the hidden angel recognize. 



A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 

The throneless monarch on the angel gazed, 

Who met his looks of anger and surprise 

With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou 

here f " 
To which King Robert answered with a sneer, 
•• I am the king, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " 
And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
Up sprang the angiy guests, and drew their 

swords ; 
The angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
•• Xay, not the king, but the king's jester ; thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape. 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape : 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall I " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and 

prayers, 
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; 
A group of tittering pages ran before, 
And as they opened wide the folding-door. 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-anns, 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of " Long live the king I " 
Xext morning, waking with the day's first beam, 
He said within himself, " It was a dream I " 
But the straw rustled as he tunied his head. 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed ; 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Satumian reign ; 

Under the angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with com and wine, 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus. the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 

Dressed in the motley garb that jestei? wear, 

With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, 



1 



KISG ROBERT OF SICILY. 



771 



Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn. 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the angel met him on his way, 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
'• Art thou the kingf "' the passion of his woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And lifting high his forehead, he would fling 
The haughty answer back, " I am, 1 am the king I " 

Almost three years were ended ; when there came 

Ambassadors of great repute and name 

From Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, 

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 

By letter summoned them forthwith to come 

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 

The angel with great joy received his guests, 

And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined. 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

Then he departed with them o'er the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the 

stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo I among the menials, in mock state, 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait. 

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched l^ehind, 

King Robert rode, making hui,e merriment 

In all the country towns through which they went. 

The pope received them with great pomp, and 

blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square. 
Giving his benediction and embrace. 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with prayers 
He entertained the angel unawares, 
Rol^rt. the jester, bursting through the crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud : 
" I am the king ! Look and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, king of Sicily ! 



This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, 

Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 

Do you not know me ? does no voice within 

Answer my en*-, and say we are akin ?" 

The pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 

Gazed at the angel's countenance serene ; 

The emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy fool at court I *' 

And the poor, V)affled jester in disgrace 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the holy week went by. 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky: 

The presence of an angel, with its light, 

Before the sun rose, made the city bright. 

And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, 

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 

Even the jester, on his bed of straw. 

"With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw ; 

He felt within a power unfelt before, 

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor. 

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 

Sweep through the silent air. ascending heaven warfL 

And now the visit ertding. and once more 

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore. 

Homeward the angel journeyed, and again 

The land was made resplendent with his train, 

Flashing along the towns of Italy 

Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 

And when once more within Palermo's wall, 

And, seated on his throne in his great hall. 

He heard the Angelus from convent towers. 

As if the better world conversed with ours. 

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, 

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 

And when they were alone, tlie angel said. 

•'Art thou the king?"' Then bowing down his 

head. 
King Roljert crossed both hands upon his breast. 
And meekly answered him : "Thou knowest best I 
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence. 
And in some cloister's school of penitence. 
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven 
Walk barefoot till my guilty soul is shriven I" 
The angel smiled, and from his radiant faco 
A holy light illumined all the place. 
And through the open window, loud r.nd clear. 
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 



773 FOFJIS OF SEXTUIENT AND REFLECTIOX. 


Above the stir and tumult of the street : 


The sun sets, the shadow flies, 


" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 


The gourd consumes — and man he dies ! 


And has exalted them of low degree ! " 




And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string: 
" I am an angel, and thou art the king ! " 


Like to the grass that 's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that 's new begun. 
Or like the bird that 's here to-day. 




Or like the pearled dew of May, 


King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 


Or like an hour, or like a span. 


Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 


Or like the singing of a swan — 


But all apparelled as in days of old, 


E'en such is man, who lives by breath. 


With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 


Is here, now there, in life and death. — 


And when his courtiers came they found him 


The grass withers, the tale is ended, 


there 


The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, 


Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent 


The hour is short, the span is long. 


prayer. 


The swan 's near death — man's life is done ! 


Hbnky Wadsworth Longfellow. 






Like to a bubble in the brook. 


^ 


Or in a glass much like a look. 


£ife. 


Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, 


Or like the writing on the sand. 


Like to the falling of the star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are. 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
Or silver drops af mo>rning dew. 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 


Or like a thought, or like a dream. 
Or like the gliding of a stream ; 
E'en such is man, who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, 
The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot. 
The thought is past, the dream is gone, 
The water glides — man's life is done ! 


The wind blows out, the bubble dies. 




The spring entombed in autumn lies. 


Like to a blaze of fond delight, 


The dew dries up, the star is shot, 


Or like a morning clear and bright. 


The flight is past — and man forgot ! 


Or like a frost, or like a shower. 


Henry King. 


Or like the pride of Babel's tower. 
Or like the hour that guides the time. 




Or like to Beauty in her prime ; 




E'en such is man, whose glory lends 


iHan^B illortaUtn. 


That life a blaze or two, and ends. 
The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain. 


Like as the damask rose you see, 


The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, 


Or like the blossom on the tree. 


The tower falls, the hour is run. 


Or like the dainty flower in May, 


The beauty lost — man's life is done ! 


Or like the morning of the day. 




Or like the sun, or like the shade. 


Like to an arrow from the bow. 


Or like the gourd which Jonas had — 


Or like swift course of water-flow. 


E'en such is man whose thread is spun. 


Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, 


Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. 


Or like the spider's tender web. 


The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 


Or like a race, or like a goal. 


The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 


Or like the dealing of a dole ; 1 



I 

i 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 



i t- 



E'en such is man, whose brittle state 

Is always subject unto Fate. 
The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, 
The time *s no time, the web soon rent, 
The race soon run, the goal soon won. 
The dole soon dealt — man's life is done ! 

Like to the lightning from the sky. 
Or like a post that quick doth hie, 
Or like a quaver in a short song. 
Or like a journey three days long. 
Or like the snow when summer's come. 
Or like the pear, or like the plum; 
E'en such is man, who heaps up sorrow. 
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. 
The lightning's past, the post must go, 
The song is short, the journey 's so. 
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, 
The snow dissolves — and so must all ! 

SiaiON Wastel. 



i^ootstc^js of Angels/ 

When the hours of day are numbered, 

And the voices of the night 
Wake the better soul that slumbered 

To a holy, calm delight — 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor-wall : 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door — 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the road-side fell and perished. 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suffering bore. 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more! 



And with them the being beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. 

All my fears are laid aside, 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died I 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 



QL\)c Sunrise ncucv -failcb us wet. 

Upon the sadness of the sea 
The sunset broods regretfully; 
From the far lonely spaces, slow 
Withdrtiws the wistful after-glow. 

So out of life the splendor dies; 
So darken all the happy skies ; 
So gathers twilight, cold and stern ; 
But overhead the planets burn ; 

And up the cast another day 
Shall chase the bitter dark away: 
What though our eyes with tears be wet f 
The sunrise never failed us yet. 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 
Our light and hope and joy once more. 
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
That sunrise never failed iis yet I 

Cki.ia Tiiaxter. 



1 <- 



POEMS OF SENTUIENT AND REFLECTION, 



ill)c Burial of tlie poet. 

RICHARD HEXRY DAXA. 

Ix the old churchyard of his native town, 
And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, 
We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, 
And left him to his rest and his renown. 
The snow was falling as if heaven dropped down 
White flowers of paradise to strew his pall : — 
The dead around him seemed to wake, and call 
His name, as worthy of so white a crown. 
And now the moon is shining on the scene, 
And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er 
With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, 
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin 
With chapters of the Koran ; but, ah ! more 
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



(ri)Ott tnert loucb on tl}s Bier. 

They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier. 
More lovely than in life ; that when the thrall 
Of earth was tossed, it seemed as though a pall 
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear 
Such as of old amidst thy home's calm sphere 
Thou safst, a kindly presence felt by all 
In joy or grief, from morn to evening fall, 
The peaceful genius of that mansion dear. 
Was it the craft of all-persuading love 
That wrought this marvel f or is death indeed 
A mighty matter, gifted from al)Ove 
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts 
Ministering thus, by quaint and subtle arts. 
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought may feed. 

William Sidney Walker. 



Sonnet. 

Of mortal glory, soon darkened ray ! 

winged joys of man, more swift than wind ! 

fond desires, which in our fancies stray I 

trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind ! 

Lo, in a flash that light is gone away 

Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind. 



And, with that sun from whence it came com- 
bined, 
Xow makes more radiant heaven's eternal day. 
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears; 
Let widowed Music only roar and groan ; 
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres, 
For dwelling-place on earth for thee is none ! 
Death hath thy temple razed. Love's empire foiled, 
The world of honor, worth, and sweetness spoiled. 

WILL1A3I DkUMMOND. 



^ toisi]. 

I ASK not that my bed of death 

From bands of greedy heirs be free; 

For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favored sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 

Tearless, when of my death he hears. 

Let those who will, if any, weep ! 

There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 

The freedom to my life denied ; 
Ask but the folly of mankind 

Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room. 
The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 

The ceremonious air of gloom — 
All, which makes death a hideous show ! 

Nor bring, to see me cease to live. 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 

To shake his sapient head, and give 
The ill he can not cure a name. 

Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death. 

His brother-doctor of the soul, 
To canvass with official breath 

The future and its viewless things — 

That undiscovered mystery 
Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than he I 



I 



THE WILL. 



< (O 



Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
While all around in silence lies, 

Moved to the window near, and see 
Once more, before my dying eyes. 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
The wide aerial landscape spread — 

The world which was ere I was born, 
The world which lasts when I am dead ; 

Which never was the friend of one, 
Nor promised love it could not give. 

But lit for all its generous sun, 
And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 

To feel the universe my home ; 
To have before my mind — instead 

Of the sick-room, the mortal strife. 
The turmoil for a little breath — 

The pure eternal course of life. 
Not human combatings with death ! 

Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow 
Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear ; 

Then willing let my spirit go 

To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 

Matthew Arnold. 



e[l)e toill. 

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
Great Love, some legacies : here I bequeath 
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see, 
If they be blind, then Love, I give them thee : 
My tongue to Fame ; to ambassadors mine ears ; 

To women, or the sea, my tears ; 
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore. 
By making me serve her who had twenty more, 
That I should give to none but such as had too 
much before. 

My constancy I to the planets give. 
My truth to them who at the court do live ; 
Mine ingenuity and openness 
To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness; 
My silence to any who abroad hath been ; 
My money to a Capuchin. 



Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 
To love there where no love received can be. 
Only to give to such as have an incapacity. 

My faith I give to Roman Catholics ; 
All my good works unto the schismatics 
Of Amsterdam ; my best civility 
And courtship, to an university ; 
My modesty I give to shoulders bare ; 
My patience let gamesters share. 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me 
Love her that holds my love disparity. 
Only to give to those that count my gifts indig- 
nity. 

I give my reputation to those 

Which were my friends ; my industry to foes ; 

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ; 

My sickness to physicians, or excess ; 

To Nature, all that I in rhyme have writ ; 

And to my company my wit ; 
Thou, Love, by making me adore 
Her who begot this love in me before, 
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I 
did but restore. 

To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls 
I give my physic-books : my written rolls 
Of moral counsels 1 to Bedlam gixa ; 
My brazen medals, unto tliem which live 
In want of bread ; to them which pass among 

All foreigners, my English tongue. 
Thou, Love, by making me love one 
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion 
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus dispropor- 
tion. 

Therefore I'll give no more ; but I'll undo 
The world by dying ; because love dies too. 
Then all your beauties will be no more worth 
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it 

forth ; 
And all your graces no more use sliall have 

Than a sun-dial on a grave. 
Thou, Love, taughtest me, by making me 
Love her who doth neglect both me and 

thee, 

To invent and practise this one way to annihilate 

all three. 

John Donne. 



776 



P0E2IS OF SENTIMENT AXD REFLECTION. 



£incs on a Skeleton. 

Behold this ruin I — 'Twas a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full ! 
This narrow cell was life's retreat ; 
This space was thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous pictures filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasures long forgot ! 
Xor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, 
Has left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye. 

But start not at the dismal void ; 

If social love that eye employed. 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dew of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns have lost theLr light. 

Here, in this silent cavern, hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If falsehood's honey it disdained. 

And, where it could not praise, was chained — 

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke. 

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 

When death unveils eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with its envied rubies shine % 
To hew the rock or wear the gem 
Can nothing now avail to them ; 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought. 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth or fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the path of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of joy they fled 
To soothe affliction's humble bed — 
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spumed, 
And home to virtue's hip returned, 
Those feet with angel's wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 

Anonymous. 



iHortalitn. 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 

Be scattered around and together be laid ; 

And the young and the old, and the low and the 

high. 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The child that a mother attended and loved. 
The mother that infant's aflection that proved. 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed. 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye. 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and 

praised. 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the 

steep, 
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread. 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven. 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — 



IX CIIARTRES CATHEDRAL. 777 


We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, 


The organ's dreamy undertone, 


And we run the same course that our fathers have 


The murmur while they pray ; 


run. 


And I sit here alone, alone, 




And have no word to say ; 


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would 


Cling closer shadows, darker yet, 


think : 


And heart be happy to forget. 


From the death we are shrinking from, they too 




would shrink ; 


And now, the mystic silence — and they kneel. 


To the life we are clinging to, they too would 


A young priest lifts a star of gold, — 


cling ; 


And then the sudden organ-peal ! 


But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 


Ave and Ave ! and the music rolled 




Along the carven wonder of the choir 


They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 


Thrilled canopy and spire, 


They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 


Up till the echoes mingled with the song ; 


They grieved, bat no w^ail from their slumbers 


And now a boy's flute-note that rings 


may come ; 


Shrill, sweet, and long ; 


They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is 


Ave and Ave, louder and more loud 


dumb. 


Rises the strain he sings 




Upon the angel's wings ! 


They died, — ay! they died: and we things that 


Right up to God ! 


are now, 




Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. 


And you that sit there in the lowliest place, 


Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. 


With lips that hardly dare to move, 


Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage 


You with the old, sad, furrowed face 


road. 


Dream on your dream of love ! 




For you, glide down the music's swell 


Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 


The folding arms of peace ; 


Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; 


For me, wild thoughts I dare not tell, 


And the smile and the tear and the song and the 


Desires that never cease. 


dirge 


For you. the calm, the angel's breast. 


Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 


Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest ; 




For me, the beat of broken wings. 


'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 


The old unanswered questionings. 


From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 


Rennell Rodd. 


From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 




shroud, — 




Oh,' why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 




William Knox. 


^xmw of tl)c (Cliuvcliiiarb. 




Ah me ! this is a sad and silent city : 




Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey 


Jn €l)artrcs (Catlicbral. 


Its grassy streets with melancholy i)ity ! 




Whereareitschildren f where their gleesome play? 


Through yonder windows stained and old 


Alas ! their cradled rest is cold and deep, — 


Four level rays of red and gold 


Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep. 


Strike down the twilight dim, 




Four lifted heads are aureoled 


This is pale beauty's bower; but where the beautiful. 


Of the sculptured cherubim. 


Whom 1 have seen come forth at evening's hours, 


And soft like sounds on faint winds blown. 


Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful. 


Of voices dying far away. 


Amid the wreaths of spring to gather flowers V 



778 



POEMS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTION. 



Alas ! no flowers are here but flowers of death, 
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath. 

This is a populous place ; but where the bust- 
ling— 

The crowded buyers of the noisy mart — 
The lookers-on, — the snowy garments rustling, — 

The money-changers, and the men of art ? 
Business, alas ! hath stopped in mid career, 
And none are anxious to resume it here. 

This is the home of grandeur : where are they, — 
The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise ? 

Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay, — 
The gaudy guise of human butterflies ? 

Alas ! all lowly lies each lofty brow. 

And the green sod dizens their beauty now. 

This is a place of refuge and repose. 

Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight. 
The scorned, the humble, and the man of woes. 

Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night ? 
Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they 

sleep 
Beside their scorners, and forget to weep. 

This is a place of gloom : where are the gloomy ? 

The gloomy are not citizens of death — 
Approach and look, where the long grass is 
plumy ; 

See them above ! they are not found beneath ! 
For these low denizens, with artful wiles, 
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles. 

This is a place of sorrow : friends have met 

And mingled tears o'er those who answered not : 

And where are they whose eyelids then were wet I 
Alas ! their griefs, their tears, are all forgot ; 

They, too, are landed in this silent city, 

Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity. 

This is a place of fear : the firmest eye 

Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness ; 

But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high, 
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness, 

Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear, 

And long to end his painful journey here. 

JOHK BeTHUNE. 



£incs tDrittcn in tiicl}monb Cl)nrcli- 
garb, ^orksljire. 

"It is good for us to be here : if thon wilt, let us make 
here three tabernacles ; one for thee, and one for Moses, and 
one for Elias." — Matt. xvii. 4. 

Methixks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? 

Xor Elias nor Moses appear. 
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? ah, no ! 
Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 

For, see ! they would pin him below, 
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty ? ah, no I — she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before — 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it 
wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride — 
The trappings which dizen the proud ? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside ; 
And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 
shroud. 

To Riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain ; 
Who hid. in their turn have been hid : 

The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford — 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah, no ! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above ; 
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side. 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 



TIIANATOPSJS. 



779 



Unto Sorrow? — The dead cannot grieve; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve ! 
Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor 

fear — 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here ! 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
Ah no ! for his empire is known, 

And here there nxc trophies enow ! 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark 

stone. 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled ; 

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the 

skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 



(ri)anatopsis. 

To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion witli her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sliarpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour coihe like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And Ijreathlcss darkness, and the narrow house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy j)ale form was laid with many tears, 
Xor in the embrace of ocean shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 

claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again ; 



And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements — 

To Vkj a brother to the insensiV>le rock. 

And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shd,ll send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good — 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness V)etween — 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round 

all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning ; traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous wor)ds 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet, the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure! All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
Wlien thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
Ilis favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of agrs glides away, the sons of men. 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years — matron, and maid, 



780 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



(©I), mari J join i\)t €l)oir Jnoisible! 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence ; live 

In pulses stirred to generosity, 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 

Of miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like 

stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge men's 

minds 
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven ; 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing a beauteous order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized, 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies, 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be. 
And what may yet be better, — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the multitude. 



Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with love, — 
That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
L'nread forever. This is life to come, — 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion evermore intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible. 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

George Eliot. 



iH^bitations of a ^inboo Prince anb 
Skeptic. 

All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never 

have trod. 
Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and 

the steps of a God ? 
Westward across the ocean and northward ayont 

the snow. 
Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the 

wisest know ? 

Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and 

swarm. 
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops or the 

gusts of a gathering storm. 
In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the 

rocks are seen, 
Yet we all say : " Whence is the message, and what 

may the wonders mean ? " 

A million shrines stand open and ever the censer 

swings. 
As they bow to a mystic symbol or the figures of 

ancient kings ; 
And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless 

cry 
Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loath 

to die. 



OVER THE RIVER. 



781 



For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a 

pass of the hills ; 
Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the 

shot that kills. 
Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a 

hand unknown, 
We pray to the trees for shelter and press our lips 

to a stone. 

The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock 

frowns hollow and grim. 
And the form and the nod of a demon are caught 

in the twilight dim ; 
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the 

mountain-crest, 
Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there 

and a rest ? 

The path, ah ! who has shown it, and which is the 

faithful guide % 
The haven, ah ! who has known it ? for steep is the 

mountain-side. 
Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted 

breath 
Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is 

only death. 

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the first of an 

ancient name. 
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field and women 

who died in flame : 
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they 

are spirits who guard our race ; 
Ever I watch and worship, they sit with a marble 

face. 

And the myriad idols around me and the legion of 

muttering priests, 
The revels and riots unholy, the dark, unspeakable 

feasts. 
What have they wrung from the silence ? Hath 

even a whisper come 
Of the secret — Whence and Whither? Alas! for 

the gods are dumb. 

Shall I list to the word of the English, who come 

from the uttermost seal 
"The secret, hath it been told you, and what is 

your message to me ? " 



It is nauglit but the wide-world story, how the 

earth and the heavens began. 
How the gods are glad and angry, and Deity once 

was man. 

I had thought : " Perchance in the cities where the 

rulers of India dwell, 
Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle 

the earth with a spell. 
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or 

measured the unknown main." 
Sadly they turn from the venture and say that the 

quest is vain. 

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall 

the dreamer awake ? 
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what 

if the mirror break ? 
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that 

is gathered and gone 
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at 

morning are level and lone ? 

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the 

rain and the levin are hurled. 
But the wind that is swept round us by the rush of 

the rolling world ? 
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me 

to silence and sleep, 
With the dirge and sounds of lamenting, and voices 

of women who weep. 

Sir Alfred Comyns Ltall. 



Oilier tl)c tliiicr. 

Over the river they beckon to me. 

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side ; 
The gloam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are lost in the rushing tide. 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
IIo crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there. 

The gates of the city we could not see : 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 



782 



POEJIS OF SEXTUIEXT AXD REFLECTIOy. 



Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale. 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
We know she is safe on the farther side. 

Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for rae. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail : 
And lo I they have passed from our yearning heart, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart. 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar : 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
1 shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me. 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 



£ifc. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to rae 's a secret yet. 
But this I know : when thou art fled, 
Where'er thev lav these limbs, this head, 



Xo clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
Oh, whither, whither dost thou fly, 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 
And in this strange divorce, 
Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I f 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame. 
From whence thy essence came. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's base encumbering weed I 
Or dost thou, hid from sight, 
Wait, like some spell-bound knight, 

Through blank oblivious years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power ? 

Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be ? 

Oh, say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 

Life I we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Grood-night, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid rae Good-raorning. 

AXXA Letitia Barbauld. 



^)i)c Ocatl) of tt)c birtuous. 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
How raildly beara the closing eyes, 

How gently heaves th' expiring breast I 

So fades a suraraer cloud away. 
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; 

Where is, grave I thy victory now ? 
And where, insidious death ! thy sting i 

Farewell conflicting joys and fears, 
Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

How bright th' unchanging morn appears ! 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 



1 

HE WHO DIED AT AZAS. 7s:J 


Its duty done, — as sinks the day, 


Yet I smile and whisper this : 


Light from its load the spirit flies ; 


I am not the thing you kiss. 


While heaven and earth combine to say, 


Cease your tears, and let it lie ; 


"Sweet is the scene when virtue dies I"' 


It was mine — it is not I. 


AXSA LfTlTIA B\RBAirLD. 






Sweet friends I what the women lave 




For its last bed of the grave. 


toonlb Qon be Qonng again? 


Is a hut which I am quitting. 


Is a garment no more fitting. 


Would you be young again f 


Is a cage from which, at last, 


So would not 1 1 


Like a hawk my soul hath passed ; 


One tear to memon.- given, 


Love the inmate, not the room. 


Onward I'd hie. 


The wearer, not the garb : the plume 


Life's dark flood forded o'er, 


Of the falcon, not the bars 


All but at i-est on shore. 


That kept him from the splendid stars! 


Sav, would vou plunge once more, 




With home so nigh ? 


Loving friends I be wise, and drv 


If you might, would you now 


Straightway ever}' weeping eye. 
"WTiat ye lift upon the bier 


Retrace vour war ? 

• • 


Is not worth a wistful tear. 


Wander through stormy wilds, 


'Tis an emptv sea-shell, one 


Faint and astray ? 


1^ • 

Out of which the pearl has gone. 


Night's gloomy watches fled, 


1. c 

The shell is broken, it lies there ; 


^loming all beaming red. 


The pearl, the all. the soul, is here. 


Hope's smiles around us shed, 


Tis an earthen jar whose lid 


Heavenward — away ! 


Allah sealed, the while it hid 




That treasure of his treasury. 


Where, then, are those dear ones. 


A mind that loved him : let it lie I 


Our joy and delight f 
Dear and more dear, though now 


Let the shard be earth's once more. 




Hidden from sight I 


Since the gold shines in his store I 


Where they rejoice to be, 




There is the land for me : 


Allah glorious I Allah good I 


Fly, time, fly speedily ! 


Xow Thy world is understood ; 


Come, life and light ! 


Xow the long, long wonder ends ! 


Ladt Xairxe. 


Yet ye weep, my erring friends. 




While the man whom ye call dead. 




In unspoken bliss instead. 




Lives and loves you : lost, 'tis true, 


Igc cdIid Dicb at ^uin. 


By such light as shines for you ; 




But. in the light ve cannot see. 


PIe who die<l at Azan sends 


Of unfulfilled felicity. 


This to comfort all his friends : 


In enlarging paradise 


Faithful friends ! It lies. I know. 


Lives a life that never dies. 


Pale and white and cold as snow: 




And ye say, " Abdullah 's dead ! " 


Farewell, friends ! yet not farewell — 


Weeping at the feet and head. 


Where I am ye too shall dwell. 


I can see your falling tears. 


I am gone before your face. 


I can hear your sighs and prayers; 


A moment's time, a little space. 



784 



P0E3IS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 



When ye come where I have stept, 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught, 
That here is all and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, 
Sunshine still must follow rain. 
Only not at death ; for death, 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain, all seems love. 
Viewed from Allah's throne above ! 
Be ye stout of heart and come 
Bravely onward to your home ! 
La Allah ilia Allah ! yea ! 
Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! 

He that died at Azan gave 

This to those who made his grave. 

Edwin Arnold. 



(Klegn tXIritten in a Country €l)urcl)- 

garb. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder i%7^-mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw -built 
shed. 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly 
bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour. — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire — 

Hands that the rod of empire might have 
swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 



z*- 




p 

i 

S 



9 






ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



r85 



Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined — 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse. 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a holy text around she strews. 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

5^ 



For thee who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove — 

Now drooping, woeful-wan. like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array, 
Slow through the church-way path we saw liira 
borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'' 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair science frowned not on his iiumble birth, 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere — 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to misery (all he liad) a tear. 
He gained from heaven ('twas all he wislied) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode — 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose). 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Giiay. 



786 



FOEJIS OF SEXTUIENT AND REFLECTION. 



?Deatli Carol. 

Come, lovely and soothing Death, 
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriv- 
ing 
In the day, in the night, to all, to each. 
Sooner or later, delicate Death. 

Praised be the fathomless universe, 
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge 

curious ; 
And for love, sweet love ; but praise ! praise ! praise ! 
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding 

Death. 

Dark mother, always gliding near, with soft feet. 
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest wel- 
come ■? 
Then I chant it for thee : 1 glorify thee above all ; 
1 bring thee a song that when thou must indeed 
come, come unfalteringly. 

Approach, strong deliveress I 
When it is so — when thou hast taken them, I joy- 
ously sing the dead, 



Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, 
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, Death. 

From me to thee glad serenades. 

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee ; adorn- 
ments and feastings for thee ; 

And the sights of the open landscape, and the 
high-spread sky, are fitting. 

And life and the fields, and the huge and thought- 
ful night. 

The night, in silence, under many a star ; 

The ocean-shore, and the husky whispering wave, 
whose voice I know ; 

And the soul turning to thee, vast and well- 
veiled Death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song ! 
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad 

fields, and the prairies wide ; 
Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming 

wharves and ways, 

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, 

Death ! 

Walt Whitman. 



PAET X. 



POEMS OF RELIGION 



Oh ! what is man, great Maker of mankind ! 

That Thou to him so great respect dost bear — 
That Thou adorn'st him with so bright a mind, 

Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's peer ? 

Oh ! what a lively life, what heavenly power, 
What spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire ! 

How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower 
Dost Thou within this dying flesh inspire ! 

Thou leav'st Thy print in other works of Thine, 
But Thy whole image Thou in man hast writ ; 

There cannot be a creature more divine, 
Except, like Thee, it should be infinite. 

But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high 
God hath raised man, since God a man became ; 

The angels do admire this mystery. 
And are astonished when they view the same. 

Nor hath he given these blessings for a day. 
Nor made them on the body's life depend : 

The soul, though made in time, survives for aye. 
And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 

SiK JouN Davies. 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Darkness is ij:iiinning. 

Darkness is thinning ; shadows are retreating : 
Morning and light are coming in their beauty. 
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry, 
God the Almighty ! 

So that our Master, having mercy on us, 
May repel languor, may bestow salvation, 
Granting us, Father, of Thy loving kindness 
Glory hereafter ! 

This of His mercy, ever blessed Godhead, 
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us — 
Whom through the wide world celebrate for ever 
Blessing and glory ! 

St. Gregory the Great. (Latin.) 
Translation of John Mason Nealb. 



Unles anb Wessons. 

When first thy eies unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like ; our bodies but forenm 

The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave 

Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the sun. 

Give Him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep 

Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up. Pmyer shou'd 
Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours 
'Twixt heaven and us. The manna was not good 
After sun-rising : far-day sullies flowrcs. 
Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. 



Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush 
And whispers amongst them. There 's not a spring 
Or leafe but hath his morning hymn. Each bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not 

sing? 
leave thy cares and follies ! go this way. 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world ; let Him not go. 
Until thou hast a blessing ; then resigne 
The whole unto Him ; and remember who 
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. 
Poure oyle upon the stones ; weep for thy sin ; 
Then Journey on, and have an eie to heav'n. 

Mornings are mysteries : the first world's youth, 

Man's resurrection, and the future's bud 

Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, 

truth 
Is stil'd their starre, the stone, and hidden food. 
Three blessings wait upon them, two of which 
Should move : they make us holy, happy, rich. 

When the world 's up, and ev'ry swarm abroad. 
Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; 
Dispatch necessities ; life hath a load 
Which must be carri'd on, and safely may. 
Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 

Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, 
Let mildness and religion guide thee out ; 
If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force f 
But what 's not good and just ne'er go alx)ut. 



790 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick ; 
That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. 

To Grod, thy countrie, and thy friend be true ; 

If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. 

Who sels religion is a Judas Jew ; 

And, oathes once broke, the soul cannot be sound. 

The perjury 's a devil let loose : what can 

Tie up his hands, that dares mock God and man ? 

Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick 

thou 
To thy sure trot ; a constant, humble mind 
Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too ; 
Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. 
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul 
Out-runs the earth, and lines the utmost pole. 

To all that seek thee bear an open heart ; 
Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap ; 
If tryals come, this wil make good thy part. 
For honesty is safe, come what can hap ; 
It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowres 
Which thrives in storms, and smels best after 
showres. 

Seal not thy eyes up from the poor ; but give 
Proportion to their merits, and thy purse : 
Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve. 
Who when thy sins call for 't, can fence a curse. 
Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters 

stray, 
The bread we cast returns in f raughts one day. 

Spend not an hour so as to weep another, 

For tears are not thine own ; if thou giv'st words, 

Dash not with them thy friend, nor heav'n ; 

smother 
A viperous thought ; some syllables are swords. 
Unbitted tongues are in their penance double ; 
They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. 

Injure not modest bloud, while spirits rise 

In judgement against lewdness ; that 's base wit, 

That voyds but filth and stench. Hast thou no 

prize 
But sickness or infection f stifle it. 
Who so makes his jest of sins, must be at least. 
If not a very devill, worse than beast. 



Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed ; 

But meet to quench his longings and thy thirst ; 

Allow your joyes religion ; that done, speed. 

And bring the same man back thou wert at first. 

Whoso returns not, cannot pray aright. 

But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. 



To heighten thy devotions, and keep low 

All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou 

hast, 
Observe God in His works ; here fountains flow. 
Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and th' earth 

stands fast ; 
Above are restles motions, running lights, 
Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. 

When seasons change, then lay before thine eys 
His wondrous method ; mark the various scenes 
In heav'n ; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and 

ice, 
Calmes, tempests, light, and darknes by His means. 
Thou canst not misse His praise : each tree, herb, 

flowre, 
Are shadows of His wisedome and His pow'r. 

To meales when thou doest come, give Him the 

praise 
Whose arm supply'd thee ; take what may suffice. 
And then be thankful ; admire His ways 
Who fils the world's unempty'd granaries ! 
A thankless feeder is a theif, his feast 
A very robbery, and himself no guest. 

High-noon thus past, thy time decays : provide 
Thee other thoughts ; away with friends and 

mirth ; 
The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide 
Under the dark and melancholy earth. 
All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man 
Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. 

Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all 

Thy beams home with thee ; trim thy lamp, buy 

oyl, 
And then set forth, who is thus drest, the fall 
Furthers his glory, and gives death the foyl. 
Man is a summer's day ; whose youth and fire 
Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTIOX. 



nn 



When night comes, list thy deeds ; make plain the 
way 

'Twixt heaven and thee ; block it not with de- 
lays ; 

But perfect all before thou sleep'st : then say, 

" Ther's one sun more strung on my bead of 
days." 

What 's good score up for joy ; the bad well 
scann'd 

Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. 

Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one 

houre 
Before thy time ; be not a stranger there, 
W^here thou may'st sleep whole ages ; life's poor 

flow'r 
Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear 
This conversation ; but the good man lyes 
In tombed many days before he dyes. 

Being laid, and drest for sleep, close not thy eies 

Up with thy curtains : give thy soul the wing 

In some good thoughts ; so when the day shall 

rise, 
And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will 

bring 
Xew flames ; besides where these lodge, vain heats 

mourn 
And die ; that bush where God is shall not burn. 

When thy nap 's over, stir thy fire, unrake 
In that dead age ; one beam i' th' dark outvies 
Two in the day ; then from the damps and ake 
Of night shut up thy leaves ; be chaste ; God 

prys 
Through thickest nights ; though then the sun be 

far. 
Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. 

Briefly, doe as thou would'st be done unto, 

Love God, and love thy neighbour ; watch, and 

pray. 
These are the words and works of life ; this do. 
And live ; who doth not thus, hath lost heav'n's 

way. 
lose it not ! look up, wilt change those lights 
For chains of darknes and eternal nights ? 

Henrt Vaughan. 



^\)c piiilosopl]cr's Demotion. 

SiXG aloud I His praise rehearse, 
Who hath made the universe. 
He the boundless heavens has spread, 
All the vital orbs has kned ; 
He that on Olympus high 
Tends His flock with watchful eye ; 
And this eye has multiplied 
Midst each flock for to reside. 
Thus, as round about they stray. 
Toueheth each with outstretched ray ; 
Nimbly they hold on their way, 
Shaping out their night and day. 
Never slack they ; none respires. 
Dancing round their central fires. 

In due order as they move, 
Echoes sweet be gently drove 
Through heaven's vast hollowness, 
Which unto all comers press — 
Music, that the heart of Jove 
Moves to joy and sportful love, 
Fills the listening sailor's ears, 
Riding on the wandering spheres. 
Neither speech nor language is 
Where their voice is not transmiss. 

God is good, is wise, is strong — 

W^itness all the creature-throng — 

Is confessed by every tongue. 

All things back from whence they sprung. 

As the thankful rivers pay 

What they borrowed of the sea. 

Now myself 1 do resign ; 
Take me whole, I all am Thine. 
Save me, God I from self-desire. 
Death's pit. dark hell's raging fire, 
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ; 
Let not lust my soul bcraire. 

Quit from these. Thy praise I'll sing, 
Loudly sweep the treml»ling string. 
Bear a part. wisdom's sons, 
Freed from vain religions ! 
Lol from far I you salute, 
Sweetly warbling on my lute — 



792 



POEMS OF RELIGIOX. 



India, Egypt, Araby. 
Asia, Greece, and Tartary. 
Carmel-tracts and Lebanon, 
With the Mountains of the Moon, 
From whence muddy Nile doth run ; 
Or, wherever else you won, 
Breathing in one vital air — 
One we are though distant far. 

Rise at once — let 's sacrifice ! 
Odors sweet perfume the skies. 
See how heavenly lightning fires 
Hearts inflamed with high aspires ; 
All the substance of our souls 
Up in clouds of incense rolls ! 
Leave we nothing to ourselves 
Save a voice — what need we else ? 
Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankful lute or lyre. 
Sing aloud I His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe. 

Hexry More. 



®l)e (!:lber Scripture. 

There is a book, who runs may read, 
Which heavenly truth imparts. 

And all the lore its scholars need — 
Pure eyes and loving hearts. 

The works of God, above, below, 

Within us, and around. 
Are pages in that book, to show 

How God himself is found. 

The glorious sky, embracing all, 

Is like the Fathers love ; 
Wherewith encompassed, great and small 

In peace and order move. 

The dew of heaven is like His grace : 

It steals in silence down ; 
But where it lights, the favored place 

By richest fruits is known. 

Two worlds are ours : 'tis only sin 

Forbids us to descry 
The mystic heaven and earth within. 

Plain as the earth and skv. 



Thou who hast given me eyes to see 

And love this sight so fair. 
Give me a heart to find out Thee 

And read Thee everywhere. 

JoHx ELeble. 



^\\t S|3irit-£anb. 

Father, Thy wonders do not singly stand, 

Xor far removed where feet have seldom 
strayed ; 
Around us ever lies the enchanted land. 

In marvels rich to Thine own sons displayed ; 
In finding Thee are all things round us found ; 

In losing Thee are all things lost beside ; 
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound ; 

And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 
We wander in the country far remote. 

Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ; 
Or on the records of past greatness dote, 

And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
While on our path bewildered falls the night 
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. 

Jones Very. 



i^or Ncuj-^car s X^a^. 

Eternal source of every joy ! 

Well may Thy praise our lips employ. 

While in Thy temple we appear 

Whose goodness crowns the circling year. 

While as the wheels of nature roll. 
Thy hand supports the steady pole ; 
The sun is taught by Thee to rise. 
And darkness when to veil the skies. 

The flowery spring at Thy command 
Embalms the air, and paints the land ; 
The summer rays with vigor shine 
To raise the corn, and cheer the vine. 

Thy hand in autumn richly pours 
Through all our coasts redundant stores ; 
And winters, softened by Thy care, 
No more a face of horror wear. 



EVENiyG. 



708 



Seasons, and months, and weeks, and days 
Demand successive songs of praise ; 
Still be the cheerful homage paid 
With opening light and evening shade. 

Here in Thy house shall incense rise, 
As circling Sabbaths bless our eyes ; 
Still will we make Thy mercies known. 
Around Thy board, and round our own. 

Oh may our more harmonious tongues 
In worlds unknown pursue the songs ; 
And in those brighter courts adore 
Where days and years revolve no more. 

Philip Doddridge. 



€t)cning. 

Father, by Thy love and power 
Comes again the evening hour : 
Light has vanished, labors cease, 
Weary creatures rest in peace. 
Thou whose genial dews distil 

On the lowliest weed that grows, 
Father, guard our couch from ill, 

Lull Thy children to repose. 
We to Thee ourselves resign, 
Let our latest thoughts be Thine. 

Saviour, to Thy Father bear 
This our feeble evening prayer ; 
Thou hast seen how oft to-day 
We, like sheep, have gone astray : 
Worldly thoughts, and thoughts of pride, 

Wishes to Thy cross untrue. 
Secret faults, and undcscried. 

Meet Thy spirit-piercing view, 
Blessed Saviour, yet through Thee 
Pray that these may pardoned be. 

Holy Spirit, breath of balm, 
Fall on us in evening's calm : 
Yet awhile before we sleep 
We with Thee will vigils keep ; 
Lead us on our sins to muse, 
Give us truest penitence. 



Then the love of God infuse. 

Breathing humble confidence : 
Melt our spirits, mould our will. 
Soften, strengthen, comfort still ! 

Blessed Trinity, be near 

Through the hours of darkness drear ; 

When the help of man is far. 

Ye more clearly present are : 

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 

Watch o'er our defenceless head. 
Let your angels' guardian host, 

Keep all evil from our bed. 
Till the flood of morning's rays 
Wake us to a song of praise. 

Anonymous. 



The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky. 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun from day to day 

Does his creator's power display. 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly, to the listening earth. 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark, terrestrial ball ? 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found f 
In reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
Forever singing as they shine. 
" The hand that made us is divine I " 

Joseph Addison. 



794 



P0E3IS OF RELKtION. 



In a QTlear Starrs Nigl)!. 

Lord, when those glorious lights I see 

With which Thou hast adorned the skies, 
Observing how they moved be, 

And how their splendor fills mine eyes, 
Methinks it is too large a grace. 

But that Thy love ordained it so — 
That creatures in so high a place 

Should servants be to man below. 

The meanest lamp now shining there 

In size and lustre doth exceed 
The noblest of Thy creatures here, 

And of our friendship hath no need. 
Yet these upon mankind attend. 

For secret aid, or public light ; 
And from the world's extremest end 

Repair unto us every night. 

Oh ! had that stamp been undefaced 

Which first on us Thy hand had set. 
How highly should we have been graced. 

Since we are so much honored yet ! 
Good God, for what but for the sake 

Of Thy beloved and only Son, 
Who did on Him our nature take, 

Were these exceeding favors done 1 

As we by Him have honored been. 

Let us to Him due honors give ; 
Let His uprightness hide our sin. 

And let us worth from Him receive. 
Yea, so let us by grace improve 

What Thou by nature dost bestow, 
That to Thy dwelling-place above 

We may be raised from below. 

George Wither. 



Q5U tlic illorning of Cl)risfs Xatiuitij. 

This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal king, 

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born. 
Our great redemption from above did bring — 
For so the holy sages once did sing — 

That He our deadly forfeit should release, 

And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 



That glorious form, that light unsufferable. 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty 

Wherewith He wont at heaven's high council-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside ; and here with us to be. 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day. 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal 
clay. 

Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the infant God ? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome Him to this His new abode — 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
bright ? 

See how from far upon the eastern road 

The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet ! 

Oh ! run, prevent them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet ; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the angel choir, 

From out His secret altar touched with hallowed 
fire. 

THE HYMN. 

It was the winter wild 

While the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies — 

Nature, in awe to Him, 

Had doffed her gaudy trim. 
With her great Master so to sympathize ; 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with innocei)t snow. 

And on her naked shame. 

Pollute with sinful blame. 
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw — 
Confounded that her maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But He, her fears to cease. 
Sent down tlie meek-eyed peace ; 



ox THE JIOBXIXCr OF CUBIST'S NATIVITY. 



705 



She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand, 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and 
land. 



Nor war, or battle's sound. 
Was heard the world around — 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 

And kings sat still with awful eye. 

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night 

Wherein the prince of light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began ; 

The winds, with wonder whist, 

Smoothly the waters kissed, 
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
wave. 

The stars with deep amaze 

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 
Bending one way their precious influence ; 

And will not take their flight 

For all the morning light. 
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them 
go. 

And though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room. 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 

And hid his head for shame. 

As his inferior flame 
The new-enlightened world no more should need ; 
He saw a greater sun appear 

Than his bright throne or burning aide-tree could 
bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or e'er the point of dawn, 



Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 

Full little thought they then 

That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
keep. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 

As never was by mortal finger strook — 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took; 

The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 
close. 

Nature, that heard such sound 

Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, 

Now was almost won 

To think her part was done. 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 
'She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 

A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed ; 

The helmed cherubim 

And sworded seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed. 
Harping in loud and solemn choir. 
With unexpressive notes, to heaven's new-bom 
heir — 

Such music as ('tis said) 

Before was never made, 
But when of old the sons of morning sung, 

While the Creator great 

His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung. 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel 
keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres I 
Once bless our human eai^s. 



796 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time, 
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Inwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; 

And speckled vanity 

Will sicken soon and die, 
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; 
And hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering 
day. 

Yea, truth and justice then 

Will down return to men. 
Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, 

Mercy will sit between. 

Throned in celestial sheen, 
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; 
And heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 

But wisest fate says No — 

This must not yet be so ; 
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss. 
So both Himself and us to glorify. 
Yet first to those ye chained in sleep 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through 
the deep, 

With such a horrid clang 

As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake ; 

The aged earth, aghast 

With terror of that blast. 
Shall from the surface to the centre shake — 
When, at the world's last session, 
The dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his 
throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is — 



But now begins : for from this happy day 
The old dragon, under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb : 

No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving ; 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine. 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving ; 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell. 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic 
cell. 

The lonely mountains o'er, 

And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 

From haunted spring, and dale 

Edged with poplar pale. 
The parting genius is with sighing sent ; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets 
mourn. 

In consecrated earth. 

And on the holy hearth, 
The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint ; 

In urns and altars round 

A drear and dying sound 
Affrights the flamens at their service quaint ; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted 
seat. 

Peor and Baalim 

Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-battered god of Palestine ; 

And mooned Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn — 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 

And sullen Moloch fled. 
Hath left in shadows dread 



EPIPHANY. 



797 



His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 

In vain, with cymbal's ring, 

They call the grisly king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast — 
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis — haste. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove or green, 
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud, 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest — 
Nought but profoundest hell can be, his shroud ; 
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark, 
The sable -stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped 
ark. 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded infant's hand — 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ; 

Nor all the gods beside 

Longer dare abide — 
Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine ; 
Our babe, to show His God-head true. 
Can in His swaddling-bands control the damned 
crew. 

So, when the sun in bed, 

Curtained with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 

The flocking shadows pale 

Troop to the infernal jail — 
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon- 
loved maze. 

But see the virgin blest 

Hath laid her babe to rest — 
Time is our tedious song should here have ending ; 

Heaven's youngest teemed star 

Hath fixed her polished cai', 
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attend- 
in "■ • 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 

John Milton. 



Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ! 

Star of the east, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining ; 

Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 

Maker, and monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean — 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gold would His favor secure ; 

Richer by far is the heart's adoration. 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid I 

Star of the east, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Reginald Heber. 



iUcssial). 

Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song — 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades. 
The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids. 
Delight no more — thou my voice inspire 
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips witli fire ! 

Rapt into future times the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills Ihe skies ! 
The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
Ye heavens, from high the dewy nectar pour. 
And in soft silence shod the kindly shower I 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail ; 
Returning justice lift aloft her scale. 



798 



POEMS OF RELIGION, 



Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
Oh spring to light ! auspicious babe, be born ! 
■See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise. 
And CarmeFs flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply — 
The rocks proclaim the approaching deity. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ! 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise ! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ! 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold — 
Hear Him, ye deaf ; and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 
'Tis He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear. 
And bid new music charm the unfolding ear ; 
The dumb shall sing ; the lame his crutch forego. 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear — 
From every face He wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air. 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
The tender lambs He raises in His arms — 
Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom warms : 
Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage — 
The promised father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise. 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
Their A-ines a shadow to their race shall yield. 
And the same hand that sowed shall reap the 
field: 



The swain in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods ; 

Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 

To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed. 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant 

mead. 
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; 
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 
The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake — 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey. 
And with their forked tongue shall innocently 

play. 
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 
In crowding ranks on every side arise. 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend. 
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 

kings. 
And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts ; the Light Himself shall 

shine 
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, tlie skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; 
But fixed His word, His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 

Alexander Pope. 



THE EEIGN OF CHRIST ON EARTH. 709 




To give them songs for sighing. 


(Eroclftl) Das, ox \\)c (Sr:pipbt^"2- 


Their darkness turn to light. 




Whose souls, condemned and dying, 


That so Thy blessed birth, Christ, 


Were precious in His sight. 


Might through the world be spread about, 




Thy star appeared in the east, 


By such shall He be feared 


Whereby the Gentiles found Thee out ; 


While sun and moon endure — 


And offering Thee myrrh, incense, gold, 


Beloved, obeyed, revered ; 


Thy threefold office did unfold. 


For he shall judge the poor, 




Through changing generations, 


Sweet Jesus, let that star of Thine — 


With justice, mercy, truth. 


Thy grace, which guides to find out Thee — 


While stars maintain their stations 


Within our hearts for ever shine. 


Or moons renew their youth. 


That Thou of us found out mayst be ; 




And Thou shalt be our king therefore, 


He shall come down like showers 


Our priest and prophet evermore. 


Upon the fruitful earth. 




And love, joy, hope, like flowers, 


Tears that from true repentance drop, 


Spring in His path to birth ; 


Instead of myrrh, present will we ; 


Before Him, on the mountains, 


For incense we will offer up 


Shall Peace, the herald, go. 


Our prayers and praises unto Thee ; 


And righteousness, in fountains. 


And bring for gold each pious deed 


From hill to valley flow. 


Which doth from saving grace proceed. 






Arabia's desert-ranger 


And as those wise men never went 


To Him shall bow the knee, 


To visit Herod any more ; 


The Ethiopian stranger 


So, finding Thee, we will repent 


His glory come to see ; 


Our courses followed heretofore ; 


With offerings of devotion 


And that we homeward may retire, 


Ships from the isles shall meet, 


The way by Thee we will inquire. 


To pour the wealth of ocean 


George Wither. 


In tribute at His feet. 




Kings shall fall down before Him, 




And gold and incense bring ; 


d)e Ucign of Cl)rist on €artl). 


All nations shall adore Him, 




His praise all people sing : 


Hail to the Lord's anointed — 


For He shall have dominion 


Great David's greater Son ! 


O'er river, sea, and shore, 


Hail, in the time appointed. 


Far as the eagle's pinion 


His reign on earth begun ! 


Or dove's light wing can soar. 


He comes to break oppression. 




To set the captive free, 


For Him shall prayer imceasing. 


To take away transgression, 


And daily vows, ascend — 


And rule in equity. 


His kingdom still increasing, 




A kingdom without end ; 


He comes with succor speedy 


The mountain dews vliall nourish 


To those who suffer wrong ; 


A seed in weakness sown. 


To help the poor and needy. 


Whose fruit shall spread and flourish, 


And bid the weak be strong; 


And shake like Lebanon. 





800 POEMS OF 


RELIGION, 




O'er every foe victorious, 


tree of beauty, tree of light ! 




He on His throne shall rest, 


tree with royal purple dight ! 




From age to age more glorious, 


Elect on whose triumphal breast 




All-blessing and all-blest ; 


Those holy limbs should find their rest ! 




The tide of time shall never 






His covenant remove ; 


On whose dear arms, so widely flung. 




His name shall stand for ever ; 


The weight of this world's ransom hung — 




That name to us is — love. 


The price of human kind to pay. 




jA>rr,S MONTGOMERT. 


And spoil the spoiler of his prey. 
To Thee, eternal three in one. 




Scsns sl)all Bcign. 


Let homage meet by all be done, 




Whom by the cross Thou dost restore. 




Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 


Preserve, and govern evermore. Amen. 


* 


Does his successive Journeys run, — 


Yenaxtius Fortttnatus. (Latin.) 




His kingdom spread from shore to shore, 


Anonymous Translation. 




Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 






From north to south the princes meet 






To pay their homage at His feet, 


(5ctl)scmane. 




While western empires own their Lord, 






And savage tribes attend His word. 


Go to dark Gethsemane, 

Ye that feel the tempter's power ; 




To him shall endless prayer be made, 


Your Redeemer's conflict see, 




And endless praises crown His head ; 


Watch with Him one bitter hour ; 




His name like sweet perfume shall rise 


Turn not from his griefs away — 




With every morning sacrifice. 


Learn of Jesus Christ to pray ! 




People and realms of every tongue 






Dwell on His love with sweetest song. 


Follow to the judgment-hall — 




And infant voices shall proclaim 


View the Lord of life arraigned ! 




Their early blessings on His name. 


Oh the wormwood and the gall ! 




Isaac Watts. 


Oh the pangs his soul sustained ! 
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss — 




- 


Learn of Him to bear the cross ! 




Passion Gunban. 


Calvary's mournful mountain climb; 




The royal banners forward go. 


There, adoring at His feet, 




The cross shines forth in mystic glow, 


Mark that miracle of time — 




Where He in flesh, our flesh who made. 


God's own sacrifice complete ! 




Our sentence bore, our ransom paid ; 


"It is finished !" — hear the cry — 
Learn of Jesus Christ to die. 




Where deep for us the spear was dyed. 






Life's torrent rushing from His side, 


Early hasten to the tomb 




To wash us in that precious flood 


Where they laid His breathless clay — 




Where mingled water flowed and blood. 


All is solitude and gloom ; 




Fulfilled is all that David told 


^Tio hath taken Him away ? 




In true prophetic song of old : 


Christ is risen ! — he meets our eyes ! 




Amidst the nations, God, saith he, 


Saviour, teach us so to rise ! 




Hath reigned and triumphed from the tree. 


James Montgomery. 



I 

f 



WEEPIXG MAIiY. ^0\ \ 


• 


Wave, woods, your blossoms all — 


tOccping iHairi. 


Grim death is dead ! 




Ye weeping funeral trees, 


Mary to her Saviours tomb 


Lift up your head ! 


Hasted at the early dawn ; 


Christ is risen I 


Spice she brought, and rich perfume — 




But the Lord she loved was gone. 


Come, see ! the graves are green ; 


For a while she weeping stood, 


It is light : let 's go 


Struck with sorrow and surprise, 


Where our loved ones rest 


Shedding tears, a plenteous flood — 


In hope below I 


For her heart supplied her eyes. 


Christ is risen ? 


Jesus, who is always near. 


All is fresh and new, 


Though too often unperceived, 


Full of spring and light : 


Comes his drooping child to cheer, 


Wintry heart, why wear's! the hue 


Kindlv asking whv she grieved. 


Of sleep and night f 


Though at first she knew him not — 


Christ is risen I 


When He called her by her name, 




Then her griefs were all forgot, 


Leave thy cares beneath, 


For she found He wa5 the same. 


Leave thy worldly love ! 




Begin the better life 


Grief and sighing quickly fled 


With God above ! 


When she heard His welcome voice ; 


Christ is risen ! 


Just before she thought Him dead, 


Thomas Blackburn. 


Xow He bids her heart rejoice. 




What a change His word can make. 




Turning darkness into day ! 
You who weep for Jesus' sake. 


(Oastcr. 


He will wipe your tears away. 


Rise, heart I thy Lord is risen. Sing His praise 




Without delays 


He who came to comfort her 


Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise 


When she thought her all was lost. 


With Him raayst rise — 


Will for your relief appear, 


That, as His death calcined thee to dust. 


Though you now are tempest-tossed. 


His life may make thee gold, and much more just. 


On His word your burden cast, 




On His love your thoughts employ ; 


Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 


Weeping for a while may last. 


With all thy art ! 


But the morning brings the joy. 


The cross taught all wo<xi to resound His name 


John Newton. 


Who Iwre the same ; 




His stretched sinews taught all strings what key 




Is best to celebrate this most high day. 


^n (!:astcr ijnmn. 




^ ^ 


Consort both haqi and lute, and twist a song 


Awake, thou wintry earth — 


Pleasiint and long ! 


Fling off thy sadness I 


Or since all music is but three parts vied 


Fair vernal flowers, laugh forth 


And multiplied. 


Your ancient gladness I 


Oh let thy blessed Spirit liear a part. 


Christ is risen ! 


And make up our defects with His sweet art. 


5J 


_ J 



802 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



1 got me flowers to strew thy way — 
I got me boughs off many a tree ; 

But thou wast up by break of day, 
And brought'st thy sweets along with thee. 

The sun arising in the east, 

Though he give light and th' east perfume, 
If they should offer to contest. 

With Thy arising, they presume. 

Can there be any day but this. 
Though many suns to shine endeavor ? 

We count three hundred, but we miss — 
There is but one, and that one ever. 

George Herbert. 



From my lips in their defilement, 
From my heart in its beguilement, 
From my tongue which speaks not fair, 
From my soul stained everywhere — 
my Jesus, take my prayer ! 

Spurn me not, for all it says, — 
Not for words, and not for ways, — 
Not for shamelessness endured ! 
Make me brave to speak my mood, 

my Jesus as I would ! 

Or teach me, which I rather seek, 
What to do and what to speak. 

1 have sinned more than she 

Who, learning where to meet with Thee, 
And bringing myrrh the highest priced, 
Anointed bravely, from her knee. 
Thy blessed feet accordingly — 
My God, my Lord, ray Christ ! 
As thou saidest not " Depart," 
To that suppliant from her heart, 
Scorn me not, Word, that art 
The gentlest one of all words said ! 
But give Thy feet to me instead, 
That tenderly I may them kiss, 
And clasp them close, and never miss, 
With over-dropping tears, as free 
And precious as that myrrh could be, 
T' anoint them bravely from my knee ! 

Wash me with Thy tears ! draw nigh me. 
That their salt may purify me ! 



Thou remit my sins who knowest 

All the sinning, to the lowest — 

Knowest all my w^ounds, and seest 

All the stripes Thyself decreest ; 

Yea, but knowest all my faith — 

Seest all my force to death, — 

Hearest all my wailings low 

That mine evil should be so ! 

Nothing hidden but appears 

In Thy knowledge, Divine, 

O Creator, Saviour mine ! — 

Not a drop of falling tears, 

Not a breath of inward moan, 

Not a heart-beat — which is gone ! 

St. Joannes Damascenus. (Greek.) 
Translation of Mrs. Browning. 



My God, I love Thee ! not because 
I hope for heaven thereby ; 

Nor because those who love Thee not 
Must burn eternally. 

Thou, my Jesus, Thou didst me 

Upon the cross embrace ! 
For me didst bear the nails and spear, 

And manifold disgrace. 

And griefs and torments numberless, 

And sweat of agony, 
Yea, death itself — and all for one 

That was Thine enemy. 

Then why, blessed Jesus Christ, 
Should 1 not love Thee well? 

Not for the hope of winning heaven, 
Nor of escaping hell ! 

Not with the hope of gaining aught, 

Not seeking a reward ; 
But as Thyself hast loved me, 

everlasting Lord ! 

E'en so I love Thee, and will love, 
And in Thy praise will sing — 

Solely because Thou art my God, 
And my eternal king. 

St. Francis Xavier. (Latin.) 
Translation of Edward Caswell. 



WRESTLING JACOB. 80:] 




But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou ? 


1 lournes tlirougl) a ^Desert JUrear 


Tell me Thy name, and tell me now. 


ttub tXlilb. 


In vain Thou strugglest to get free ; 


I JOURNEY through a desert drear and wild, 


I never will unloose my hold ; 


Yet is my heart by such sweet thoughts beguiled 


Art Thou the man that died for me ? 


Of Him on whom I lean, my strength, my stay, 


The secret of Thy love unfold ; 


I can forget the sorrows of the way. 


Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 




Till I Thy name. Thy nature know. 


Thoughts of Plis love — the root of every grace. 




Which finds in this poor heart a dwelling-place ; 


Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal 


The sunshine of my soul, than day more bright. 


Thy new, unutterable name ? 


And my calm pillow of repose by night. 


Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell ; 




To know it now resolved I am ; 


Thoughts of His sojourn in this vale of tears — 


Wrestling, I will not let Thee go. 


The tale of love unfolded in those years 


Till I Thy name. Thy nature know. 


Of sinless suffering, and patient grace, 




1 love again and yet again to trace. 


What though my shrinking flesh complain. 




And murmur to contend so long ; 


Thoughts of His glory — on the cross I gaze. 


I rise superior to my pain ; 


And there behold its sad, yet healing rays ; 


When I am weak, then am I strong ! 


Beacon of hope, which, lifted up on high, 


And when my all of strength shall fail. 


Illumes with heavenly light the tear-dimmed eye. 


I shall with the God-man prevail. 


Thoughts of His coming — for that joyful day 


SECOND PART. 


In patient hope I watch, and wait, and pray ; 




The dawn draws nigh, the midnight shadows flee, 


Yield to me now, for I am weak. 


Oh ! what a sunrise will that advent be ! 


But confident in self-despair ; 




Speak to my heart, in blessings speak ; 


Thus while I journey on, my Lord to meet. 


Be conquered by my instant prayer ; 


My thoughts and meditations are so sweet, 


Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, 


Of Him on whom I lean, my strength, my stay. 


And tell me if Thy name be Love. 


I can forget the sorrows of the way. 




Anonymous. 


'Tis love ! 'tis love ! Thou diedst for me ; 




I hear Thy whisper in my heart ; 




The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 


1^^ 


Pure, universal love Thou art : 


ujrestling Jacob. 


To me, to all. Thy bowels move. 


FIRST PART. 


Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 


Come, Thou trJiveller unknown, 


My prayer hath power with God : the grace 


Whom still I hold, but cannot see ; 


Unspeakable 1 now receive : 


My company before is gone, 


Through faith I see Thee face to face ; 


And I am left alone with Thee ; 


I see Thee face to face and live ! 


With Thee all night I mean to stay, 


In vain I have not wept and strove ; 


And wrestle till the break of day. 


Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 


I need not tell Thee who I am ; 


I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art, 


My sin and misery declare ; 


Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ; 


Thyself hast called me by my name ; 


Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, 


Look on Thy hands, and read it there ; 


But stay and love me to the end ; 



804 



P0E3IS OF RELIGION. 



Thy mercies never sliall remove ; 
Thy nature and Thy name is Love^ 

The sun of righteousness on me 

Hath rose, with healing in his wings ; 

Withered my nature's strength : from Thee 
My soul its life and succor brings ; 

My help is all laid up above ; 

Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Contented now upon my thigh 
I halt, till life's short journey end ; 

All helplessness, all weakness, 1 

On Thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor' have I power from Thee to move ; 

Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey ; 

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way, 

And, as a bounding hart, fly home ; 
Through all eternity to prove 
Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 

Charles Wesley. 



^[)c Stranger anb l^is £ricn5. 

A POOR wayfaring man of grief 

Hath often crossed me on my way, 
Who sued so humbly for relief 

That I could never answer " Nay." 
I had not power to ask His name, 
Whither He went, or whence He came ; 
Yet there was something in His eye 
That won my love, — I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread. 
He entered. Not a word He spake. 

Just perishing for want of bread, 
I gave Him all ; He blessed it, brake, 

And ate ; but gave me part again. 

Mine was an angel's portion then ; 

For while I fed with eager haste. 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied Him where a fountain burst 

Clear from the rock ; His strength was gone ; 

The heedless water mocked His thirst ; 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on. 



I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
Thrice from the stream He drained my cup, 
Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; — 
I drank, and never thirsted more. 

'Twas night ; the floods were out, — it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof ; 
I heard His voice abroad, and flew 

To bid Him welcome to my roof ; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest — 
Laid Him on my own couch to rest ; 
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed 
In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 

I found Him by the highway side ; 
I roused His pulse, brought back His breath. 

Revived His spirit and supplied 
Wine, oil, refreshment ; He was healed. 
I had, myself, a wound concealed — 
But from that hour forgot the smart, 
And peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw Him next, condemned 
To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 

The tide of lying tongues I stemmed. 

And honored Him midst shame and scorn. 

My friendship's utmost zeal to try, 

He asked if I for him would die ; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chiD, 

But the free spirit cried, " I will." 

Then in a moment, to my view, 
The stranger darted from disguise ; 

The tokens in His hands I knew — 
My Saviour stood before mine eyes. 

He spake : and my poor name he named — 

" Of me thou hast not been ashamed ; 

These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 

Fear not ! thou didst them unto me." 

James Moxtgomert. 



Sri)e Coll. 

Come, my way, my truth, my life — 
Such a way as gives us breath ; 

Such a truth as ends all strife ; 
Such a life as killeth death. 



THE FEAST. 



805 



Come my light, my feast, my strength — 

Such a light as shows a feast ; 
Such a feast as mends in length ; 

Such a strength as makes His guest. 

Come my joy, my love, my heart ! 

Such a joy as none can move ; 
Such a love as none can part ; 

Such a heart as joys in love. 

George Herbert. 



How sweetly doth My Master sound ! — My Master ! 

As ambergris leaves a rich scent 
Unto the taster. 

So do these words a sweet content 
An oriental f ragrancy — My Master ! 

With these all day I do perfume my mind, 
My mind even thrust into them both — 

That I might find 
What cordials make this curious broth. 

This broth of smells, that feeds and fats my mind. 

My Master shall I speak ? Oh that to Thee 

My servant were a little so 
As flesh may be : 

That these two words might creep and grow 
To some degree of spiciness to Thee ! 

Then should the pomander, which was before 
A speaking sweet, mend by reflection. 

And tell me more : 
For pardon of my imperfection 

Would warm and work it sweeter than before. 

For when My Master, which alone is sweet. 
And e'en in my unworthincss pleasing. 

Shall call and meet 
My servant, as Thee not displeasing. 

That call is but the breathing of the sweet. 

This breathing would with gains, by sweet'ning me, 
(As sweet things trafliek when they meet) 

Return to Thee ; 
And so this new commerce and sweet 
Should all my life employ, and busy me. 

George Herbert. 



ijl)e i^cast. 

Oh come away ! 

Make no delay — 
Come while my heart is clean and steady I 

While faith and grace 

Adorn the place, 
Making dust and ashes ready ! 

Xo bliss here lent 

Is permanent — 
Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit ; 

Short sips and sights 

Endear delights ; 
Who seeks for more he would inherit. 

Come then, true bread, 

Quick'ning the dead, 
Whose eater shall not, cannot die ! 

Come, antedate 

On me that state 
Which brings poor dust the victory I — 

Aye, victory ! 

Which from thine eye. 
Breaks as the day doth from the east, 

When the spilt dew. 

Like tears, doth shew 
The sad world wept to be releast. 

Spring up. wine ! 

And springing shine 
With some glad message from His heart, 

Who did, when slain, 

These means ordain 
For me to have in Him a part ! — 

Such-a sure part 

In His blest heart. 
The well where living waters spring, 

That, with it fed. 

Poor dust, though dead. 
Shall rise again, and live, and sing. 

drink and bread. 

Which strikes death dead. 
The food of man's immortal l)eing I 

Under veils here 

Thou art my clieor. 
Present and sure without r.iv sceinir. 



806 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



How dost Thou fly, 

And search and pry 
Through all my parts, and, like a quick 

And knowing lamp. 

Hunt out each damp 
"Whose shadow makes me sad or sick. 

Oh what high joys ! 

The turtle's voice 
And songs I hear ! quick'ning showers 

Of my Lord's blood. 

You make rocks bud. 
And crown dry hills with wells and flowers ! 

For this true ease, 

This healing peace. 
For this brief taste of living glory, 

My soul and all, 

Kneel down and fall. 
And sing His sad victorious story. 

thorny crown. 

More soft than down ! 
painful cross, my bed of rest ! 

spear, the key 

Opening the way ! 
Thy worst state mv only best. 

Oh, all Thy griefs 

Are my reliefs. 
As all my sins Thy sorrows were ; 

And what can I 

To this reply 1 
What, God ! but a silent tear I 

Some toil and sow 

That wealth may flow, 
And dress this earth for next year's meat ; 

But let me heed 

Why Thou didst bleed, 
And wliat in the next world to eat. 

Henrv Vaughan. 



Sonnets. 

How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark's the glory of the earth to Thine! 
Thy veiled eyes outshine heaven's greater light, 
L'nconquered by the shady cloud of night ; 



Thy curious tresses dangle, all unbound, 
With unalfected order to the ground : 
How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine ! 
How dark 's the glory of the earth to Thine ! 



Nor myrrh, nor cassia, nor the choice perfumes 

Of unctious nard, or aromatic fumes 

Of hot Arabia do enrich the air 

With more delicious sweetness than the fair 

Reports that crown the merits of Thy name 

With heavenly laurels of eternal fame. 

Which makes the virgins fix their eyes upon Thee, 

And all that view Thee are enamored on Thee. 



Who ever smelt the breath of morning flowers 
New sweetened with the dash of twilight showers. 
Of pounded amber, or the flowing thyme. 
Or purple violets in their proudest prime, 
Or swelling clusters from the cypress-tree f 
So sweet 's my love ; aye, far more sweet is He — 
So fair, so sweet, that heaven's bright eye is dim, 
And flowers have no scent, compared with Him. 

Francis Ql'ARles. 



^\]t flotDcr. 

How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean 
Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring — 

To which, besides their own demean, 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 
As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart 
Could have recovered greenness ? It was gone 

Quite under ground ; as flowers depart 
To see their mother-root when they have blown, 
Where they together, 
All the hard weather. 
Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 

These are Thy wonders, Lord of power : 
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell 

And up to heaven in an hour. 
Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
We say amiss, 
This or that is — 
Thy word is all, if we could si)ell. 



A PRAYER LIVING AND DYING. 807 


Oh, that I once past changing were — 


Nothing in my hand 1 bring — 


Fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can wither ! 


Simply to Thy cross I cling ; 


Many a spring I shoot up fair, 


Naked come to Thee for dress — 


Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither ; 


Helpless look to Thee for grace ; 


Nor doth my flower 


Foul, I to the fountain fly — 


Want a spring-shower. 


Wash me, Saviour, or I die. 


My sins and I joining together. 






While I draw this fleeting breath. 


But, while I grow in a straight line, 


When my eye-strings break in death. 


Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, 


When I soar to worlds unknown, 


Thy anger comes, and I decline ; 


See Thee on Thy judgment throne. 


What frost to that ? what pole is not the zone 


Rock of ages, cleft for me. 


Where all things burn, 


Let me hide myself in Thee ! 


When Thou dost turn 




■ • A J.\-- J X -1- * 1. \J L*. VI V O 1/ *> U..1- XJL 


Augustus Montague Topladt. 


And the least frown of Thine is shown ? 




And now in age I bud again — 




After so many deaths I live and write ; 


QLl)c (B%am\ik of Clirist. 


I once more smell the dew and rain, 




And relish versing ; my only light, 


My dear Redeemer, and my God, 


It cannot be 


I read my duty in Thy word ; 


That I am he 


But in Thy life the law appears 


On whom Thy tempests fell all night ! 


Drawn out in living characters. 


These are Thy wonders, Lord of love — 


Such was Thy truth, and such Thy zeal, 


To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; 


Such deference to Thy Father's will. 


"^Tiich when we once can find and prove, 


Such love, and meekness so divine. 


Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 


1 would transcribe, and make them mine. 


Who would be more. 




Swelling through store, 


Cold mountains, and the midnight air, 


Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 


Witnessed the fervor of Thy prayer : 


George Herbert. 


The desert Thy temptations knew — 




Thy conflict, and Thy victory too. 




Be Thou my pattern ; make me bear 


^ Praiicr Cluing anb Dning. 


More of Thy gracious image hero ; 




Then God, the Judge, shall own my name 


Rock of ages, cleft for me, 


Amongst the followers of the Lamb. 


Let me hide myself in Thee ! 


cj 


Let the water and the blood, 


Isaac Watts. 


From Thy riven side which flowed, 


• 


Be of sin the double cure — 




Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 


(Tome nnto iWc. 


Not the labors of my hands 


"Come unto mc, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and 


Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 


I will give you rest." 


Could my zeal no respite know, 


Come, said Jesus' sacred voice — 


Could my tears for ever flow. 


Come and make my paths your choice! 


All for sin could not atone — 


T will guide you to your home — 


Thou must save, and Thou alone. 


Weary ]ulgrim, liither come ! 

1 



808 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Thou who, houseless, sole, forlorn, 
Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, 
Long hast roamed the barren waste, 
Weary pilgrim, hither haste ! 

Ye who, tossed on beds of pain, 
Seek for ease, but seek in vain — 
Ye whose swollen and sleepless eyes 
Watch to see the morning rise — 

Ye by fiercer anguish torn. 

In strong remorse for guilt who mourn, 

Here repose your heavy care — 

A wounded spirit who can bear ! 

Sinner, come ! for here is found 
Balm that flows for every wound — 
Peace, that ever shall endure — 
Rest eternal, sacred, sure. 

Anna L^titia Barbauld. 



^\\z toatcliman's Hcport. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

What its signs of promise are ! 
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 

See that glory-beaming star ! 
Watchman, does its beauteous ray 

Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
Traveller, yes; it brings the day — 

Promised day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

Higher yet that star ascends ! 
Traveller, blessedness and light. 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 
Watchman, will its beams alone 

Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
Traveller, ages are its own — 

See, it bursts o'er all the earth ! 

Watchman, tell us of the night, 

For the morning seems to dawn. 
Traveller, darkness takes its flight — 

Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 
Watchman, let thy wandering cease ; 

Hie thee to thy quiet home. 
Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace — 

Lo ! the Son of God is come. 

JOHX BOWRING. 



Uockeb in X\)z (Slrable oi i\\z IDec^a. 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I lay me down in peace to sleep ; 
Secure I rest upon the wave. 
For Thou, 0, Lord ! hast power to save. 
• I know thou wilt not slight my call. 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; 
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

When in the dead of night I lie 
And gaze upon the trackless sky, 
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, 
The boundless waters as they roll, — 
I feel Thy wondrous power to save 
From perils of the stormy wave : 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I calmly rest and soundly sleep. 

And such the trust that still were mine. 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine. 
Or though the tempest's fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 
In ocean-cave, still safe with Thee 
The germ of immortality ! 
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

Emma Willard. 



Jesus, Coiicr of mri Soul. 

Jesus, lover of my soul. 

Let me to Thy bosom fly 
While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high. 
Hide me, my Saviour, hide, 

Till the storm of life is past : 
Safe into Thy haven guide — 

Oh, receive my soul at last. 

Other refuge have I none — 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone — 

Still support and comfort me. 
All my trust on Thee is stayed. 

All my help from Thee I bring ; 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing. 



« 



FRIEND 


■ ■ '■ — 1 

OF ALL. 809 


Wilt Thou not regard my call "? 


Bring us every moment nearer ; 


Wilt Thou not regard my prayer ? 


Fairer rise 


Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall — 


In our eyes — 


Lo ! on Thee I cast my care ; 


Dearer still, and dearer ! 


Reach me out Thy gracious hand, 




While 1 of Thy strength receive ! 


Infinitely dear and precious, 


Hoping against hope I stand — 


With Thy love 


Dying, and behold I live. 


From above 




Evermore refresh us ! 


Thou, Christ, art all I want — 




More than all in Thee I find ; 


Strengthened by the cordial blessing, 
Let us haste 
To the feast, 


Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 


Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 


Just and holy is Thy name — 


Feast of joys unceasing ! 


I am all unrighteousness ; 


Perfect let us walk before Thee — 


False, and full of sin 1 am — 


Walk in white 


Thou art full of truth and grace. 


To the sight 




Of Thy heavenly glory I 


Plenteous grace with Thee is found, — 


•/ J G J 


Grace to cover all my sin ; 


Both with calm impatience press on 


Let the healing streams abound — 


To the prize — 


Make and keep me pure within. 


Scale the skies. 


Thou of life the fountain art — 


Take entire possession — 


Freely let me take of Thee ; 




Spring Thou up within my heart — 


Drink of life's exhaustless river — 


Rise to all eternity. 


Take of Thee 


Charles Wesley. 


Life's fair tree — 




Eat, and live for ever ! 




Charles Wesley 


i^rienb of ^11. 




Friend of all who seek Thy favor, 


£itann. 


Us defend 




To the end — 


Saviour, when in dust to Thee 


Be our utmost Saviour ! 


Low we bow the adoring knee ; 




When, repentant, to the skies 


Us, who join on earth to adore Thee, 


Scarce we lift our weeping eyes — 


Guard and love, 


Oh, by all thy pains and woe 


Till above 


Suffered once for man below. 


Both appear before Thee ! 


Bending from Thy throne on high, 




Hear our solemn litany ! 


Fix on Thee our whole affection — 




Love divine, 


By Thy helpless infant years ; 


Keep us Thine, 


By Thy life of want and tears; 


Safe in Thy protection ! 


By Thy days of sore distress. 




In the savage wilderness ; 


Christ, of all our conversation 


By the dread, mysterious hour 


Be the scope — 


Of the insulting tomjitor's power — 


Lift us up 


Turn, turn a favoring eye — 


To Thy full salvation ! 


Hear our solemn litany ! 



810 POEMS OF 


RELIGIO^\ 


By the sacred griefs that wept 


He shall His pitying aid bestow 


O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 


Who felt on earth severer woe, 


By the boding tears that flowed 


At once betrayed, denied, or fled, 


Over Salem's loved abode; 


By those who shared His daily bread. 


By the anguished sigh that told 




Treachery lurked within the fold — 


If vexing thoughts within me rise, 


From Thy seat above the sky 


And sore dismayed my spirit dies. 


Hear our solemn litany ! 


Still He who once vouchsafed to bear 




The sickening anguish of despair 


By Thine hour of dire despair ; 


Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, 


By Thine agony of prayer ; 


The thi'obbing heart, the streaming eye. 


By the cross, the wail, the thorn, 




Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 


When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, 


By the gloom that veiled the skies 


Which covers what was once a friend, 


O'er the dreadful sacrifice — 


And from his voice, his hand, his smile. 


Listen to our humble cry : 


Divides me for a little while ; 


Hear our solemn litany ! 


Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed, 




For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead. 


By Thy deep expiring groan ; 




By the sad sepulchral stone ; 


And oh, when I have safely past 


By the vault whose dark abode 


Through every conflict but the last, 


Held in vain the rising God ! 


Still, still unchanging, watch beside 


Oh ! from earth to heaven restored. 


My painful bed, for Thou hast died ; 


Mighty, reascended Lord — 


Then point to realms of cloudless day, 


Listen, listen to the cry 


And wipe the latest tear away. 


Of our solemn litany ! 




J 


Sir Robert Grant. 


Sir Robekt Grant. 




flsmn. 


®l)e lH^tah €lirist. 




Take the dead Christ to my chamber — 


When gathering clouds around I view, 


The Christ I brought from Borne ; 


And days are dark, and friends are few, 


Over all the tossing ocean, 


On Him I lean, who, not in vain, 


He has reached His western home: 


Experienced every human pain ; 


Bear Him as in procession. 


He sees my wants, allays my fears. 


And lay Him solemnly 


And counts and treasures up my tears. 


Where, through weary night and morning, 




He shall bear me company. 


If aught should tempt my soul to stray 




From heavenly wisdom's narrow way, 


The name I bear is other 


To fly the good I would pursue, 


Than that I bore by birth ; 


Or do the sin I would not do, — 


And I've given life to children 


Still He who felt temptation's power 


Who'll grow and dwell on earth : 


Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 


But the time comes swiftly towards me — 




Nor do 1 bid it stay — 


If wounded love my bosom swell. 


When the dead Christ will be more to me 


Deceived by those I prized too well, 


Than all I hold to-day. 



THE DEAD CHRIST. 



811 



Lay the dead Christ beside me — 

Oh, press Him on my heart ; 
I would hold Him long and painfully, 

Till the weary tears should start — 
Till the divine contagion 

Heal me of self and sin. 
And the cold weight press wholly down 

The pulse that chokes w^ithin. 

Reproof and frost, they fret me ; 

Towards the free, the sunny lands, 
From the chaos of existence, 

I stretch these feeble hands — 
And, penitential, kneeling, 

Pray God would not be wroth. 
Who gave not the strength of feeling 

And strength of labor both. 

Thou 'rt but a wooden carving, 

Defaced of worms, and old ; 
Yet more to me Thou couldst not be 

Wert Thou all wrapt in gold, 
Like the gem-bedizened baby 

Which, at the Twelfth-day noon. 
They show from the Ara Coeli's steps 

To a merry dancing tune. 

I ask of Thee no wonders — 

No changing white or red ; 
I dream not Thou art living, 

I love and prize Thee dead. 
That salutary deadness 

I seek through want and pain. 
From which God's own high power can bid 



Our virtue rise again. 



Julia Ward Howe. 



iUi] Spirit Congctl) for ®l)cc. 

My spirit longeth for Thee 
Within my troubled l)reast, 

Althougli I be unworthy 
Of so divine a Guest. 

Of so divine a Guest 
Unwortliy though I be, 

Yet has my heart no rest 
Unless it come from Thee. 



Unless it come from Thee, 

In vain I look around ; 
In all that I can see 

No rest is to be found. 

No rest is to be found 

But in Thy blessed love : 
Oh, let my wish be crowned, 

And send it from above I 

THE ANSWER. 

Cheer up, desponding soul ! 

Thy longing pleased I see ; 
'Tis part of that great whole 

Wherewith I longed for thee. 

Wherewith I longed for thee, 
And left my Father's throne, 

From death to set thee free, 
To claim thee for my own. 

To claim thee for my own 

I suffered on the cross. 
Oh, were my love but known, 

No soul could fear its loss. 

No soul could fear its loss. 
But, filled with love divine, 

Would die on its own cross. 
And rise forever mine. 

John Byrom. 



Sonnet. 

In the desert of the Holy Land I strayed. 
Where Christ once lived, but seems to live no more ; 
In Lebanon my lonely home I made : 
I heard the wind among the cedars roar, 
And saw far off the Dead Sea's solemn shore — 
But 'tis a dreary wilderness, I said. 
Since the prophetic spirit hence has sped. 
Then from the convent in the vale 1 lioard, 
Slow chanted forth, the everlasting Word — 
Saying, " I am He tliat liveth, and was dead ; 
And lo I am alive for evermore." 
Then forth upon my pilgrimage I fare. 
Resolved to find and praise Him everywhere. 

AxoNYMors. 



812 



POEMS OF RELIGION'. 



Drop, drop, slow tears, 
And bathe those beauteous feet 

Which brought from heaven 
The news and Prince of Peace. 

Cease not, wet eyes 
His mercies to entreat, 

To cry for vengeance 
Sin doth never cease ; 

In your deep floods 
Drown all my faults and fears ; 

Nor let His eye 
See sin, but through my tears. 

Phineas Fletcher. 



^ Qlljristmas i^timn. 

It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away. 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 
Went plodding home a weary boor ; 

A streak of light before him lay. 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 

Across his path. He passed — for naught 
Told what was going on within ; 



How keen the stars, his only thought ; 
The air how calm and cold and thin, 
In the solemn midnight. 



Centuries ago ! 



Oh, strange indifference I low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still — but knew not why ; 

The world was listening, unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever — 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their Joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born. 

The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, 
In the solemn midnight. 



Centuries ago I 



Alfred Domett. 



Cliristmas. 

RiXG out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 



ST. PETER'S DAY. 



813 



Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the nan'owing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Texntsox. 



6t. Peter's Dav, 

Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved. 
Watch by thine own forgiven friend ! 

In sharpest perils faithful proved, 
Let his soul love Thee to the end. 

The prayer is heard — else why so deep 
His slumber on the eve of death ? 

And wherefore smiles he in his sleep. 
As one who drew celestial breath ? 

He loves and is beloved again — 
Can his soul choose but be at rest f 

Sorrow hath fled away, and pain 
Dares not invade the guarded nest. 

He dearly loves, and not alone ; 

For his winged thoughts are soaring high, 
Where never yet frail heart was known 

To breathe in vain affection's sigh. 

He loves and weeps : but more than tears 
Have sealed Thy welcome and his love — 

One look lives in him, and endears 
Crosses and wrongs where'er he rove — 



That gracious chiding look. Thy call 
To win him to himself and Thee, 

Sweetening the sorrow of his fall 
Which else were rued too bitterly ; 

Even through the veil of sleep it shines, 

The memory of that kindly glance ; 
The angel, watching by, divines, 
'And spares awhile his blissful trance. 

Or haply to his native lake 
His vision wafts him back, to talk 

With Jesus, ere his flight he take. 
As in that solemn evening walk. 

When to the bosom of his friend. 

The Shepherd, He whose name is Good, 

Did His dear lambs and sheep commend. 
Both bought and nourished with His blood ; 

Then laid on him th' inverted tree. 

Which, firm embraced with heart and arm, 

Might cast o'er hope and memory. 
O'er life and death, its awful charm. 

With brightening heart he bears it on, 
His passport through th' eternal gates, 

To his sweet home — so nearly won. 
He seems, as by the door he waits, 

The unexpressive notes to hear 

Of angel song and angel motion. 
Rising and falling on the ear 

Like waves in joy's unbounded ocean. 

His dream is changed — the tjTant's voice 
Calls to that last of glorious deeds — 

But as he rises to rejoice. 

Not Herod, but an angel leads. 

He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, 
Glancing around his prison-room ; 

But 'tis a gleam of heavenly light 
That fills up all the ample gloom. 

The flame that in a few short years 

Deep through the chambers of the dead 

Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, 
Is waving o'er his dungeon-bed. 



814 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Touched, he upstarts — his chains unbind — 


He cast (of which we rather boast) 


Through darksome vault, up massy stair, 


The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 


His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind 


And in these rocks for us did frame 


To freedom and cool, moonlight air. 


A temple, where to sound His name. 




Oh I let our voice His praise exalt 


Then all himself, all joy and calm, 


Till it arrive at heaven's vault ; 


Though for awhile his hand forego. 


Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may 


Just as it touched, the martyr's palm. 


Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 


He turns him to his task below : 






Thus sang they, in the English boat. 


The pastoral staff, the keys of heaven. 


A holy and a cheerful note ; 


To wield awhile in grav-haired might — 


And all the way, to guide their chime. 


Then from his cross to spring forgiven, 


AYith falling oars they kept the time. 


And follow Jesus out of sight. 


Andrew Makvell. 


JOHX Keble. 






i§nntn of tl)e ^cbrcto iHaib. 


^\\t Emigrants in jBcrmubas. 


VV HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved. 




Out from the land of bondage came, 


Where the remote Bermudas ride 


Her father's God before her moved. 


In th' ocean's bosom, unespied — 


An awful guide in smoke and flame. 


From a small boat, that rowed along. 


By day, along the astonished lands 


The list'ning winds received this song : 


The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 




By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 


What should we do but sing His praise 


Returned the fiery column's glow. 


That led us through the watery maze 




Unto an isle so long unknown. 


There rose the choral hymn of praise. 


And yet far kinder than our own ? 


And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 


Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 


And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 


That lift the deep upon their backs. 


With priest's and warrior's voice between. 


He lands us on a grassy stage, 


No portents now our foes amaze — 


Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 


Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 


He gave us this eternal spring 


Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 


Which here enamels every thing, 


And Thou hast left them to their own. 


And sends the fowls to us in care, 




On daily visits through the air. 


But, present still, though now unseen, 


He hangs in shades the orange bright, 


When brightly shines the prosperous day. 


Like golden lamps in a green night, 


Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, 


And does in the pomegranates close 


To temper the deceitful ray. 


Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 


And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 


He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 


In shade and storm the frequent night, 


And throws the melons at our feet. 


Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath. 


But apples — plants of such a price 


A burning and a shining light ! 


No tree could ever bear them twice. 




With cedars, chosen by His hand 


Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 


From Lebanon, He stores the land ; 


The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 


And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 


No censer round our altar beams, 


Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 


And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 



Jir PSALM. 



815 



But Thou hast said, the blood of goats, 
The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 

A contrite heart, and humble thoughts, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Z)^c laborer's ^'oonban i^nmn. 

Up to the throne of God is borne 
The voice of praise at early morn. 
And He accepts the punctual hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim ; 

Xor will He turn his ear aside 
From holy offerings at noontide : 
Then, here reposing, let us raise 
A song of gratitude and praise. 

TMiat though our burden be not light. 
We need not toil from morn to night ; 
The respite of the mid-day hour 
Is in the thankful creature's power. 

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest, 
Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon the service of our God I 

Each field is then a hallowed spot — 
An altar is in each man's cot, 
A church in every grove that spreads 
Its living roof above our heads. 

Look up to heaven ! the industrious sun 
Already half his race hath run : 
He cannot halt nor go astray — 
But our immortal siiirits may. 

Lord, since his rising in the east 
If we have faltered or transgressed. 
Guide, from Tliy love's abundant source, 
What yet remains of this day's course. 

Help with Thy grace, through life's short day, 
Our upward and our downward way : 
And glorify for us the west, 
When we shall sink to final rest. 

William Wordsworth. 



illn Psalm. 

I MOURN' no more my vanished years : 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west -winds blow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run : 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear ; 
But. grateful, take the good I find. 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land, 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay 

Aside the toiling oar ; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening com. 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the autumn mom ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven. 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ; 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise. 

The south-wind softly sigh. 
And sweet, calm days in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong : 
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal. — 

To build as to destroy : 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That 1 the more enjoy. 



816 POEMS OF 


■""! 
RELIGION. \ 


All as God wills, who wisely heeds 


Is it to fast an hour — 


To give or to withhold, 


Or ragged to go — 


And knoweth more of all ray needs 


Or show 


Than all my prayers have told ! 


A downcast look, and sour? 


Enough that blessings undeserved 
Have marked my erring track ; 


No ! 'tis a fast to dole 
Thy sheaf of wheat, 


That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, 
His chastening turned me back ; 


And meat. 
Unto the hungry soul. 


That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; 


It is to fast from strife, 
From old debate 
And hate — 
To circumcise thy life. 


That death seems but a covered way 
Which opens into light, 

"Wherein no blinded child can stray 
Beyond the Father's sight ; 


To show a heart grief -rent ; 
To starve thy sin, 
Not bin — 
And that 's to keep thy lent. 

Egbert Herrick. 


That care and trial seem at last, 




Through Memory's sunset air, 




Like mountain-ranges overpast, 
In purple distance fair ; 


®l)c Priest. 




I WOULD I were an excellent divine 


That all the jarring notes of life 


That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; 


Seem blending in a psalm, 


That men might hear out of this mouth of mine. 


And all the angles of its strife 


How God doth make His enemies His friends ; 


Slow rounding into calm. 


Rather than with a thundering and long prayer 




Be led into presumption, or despair. 


And so the shadows fall apart. 




And so the west-winds play ; 


This would I be, and would none other be — 


And all the windows of my heart 


But a religious servant of my God ; 


I open to the day. 


And know there is none other God but He, 


John Greenleaf Whittier. 


And willingly to suffer mercy's rod — 
Joy in His grace, and live but in His love, 




And seek my bliss but in the world above. 


®o Hcep a S^rue Cent. 


And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, 




For all estates within the state of grace. 


Is this a fast — to keep 


That careful love might never know despair, 


The larder lean. 


Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; 


And clean 


And this would I both day and night devise 


From fat of veals and sheep f 


To maive my humble spirit's exercise. 


Is it to quit the dish 


And I would read the rules of sacred life ; 


Of flesh, yet still 


Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; 


To fill 


The husband care, and comfort to the wife, 


The platter high with fish ? 


To child and servant due obedience ; 



ox A PR A YER-BOOK SEST TO MRS. ?f. R. 



ei 



, 1 



Faith to ihe frieod. and to the ntri^hbor pe^ee. 
That loTe might lire, and quarrels all might cease. 

Prayer for the health of aU that are diseased, 
Confesaon unto all that are convicted. 

And patience nnto all that are displeased. 
And comfort nnto all that are afflicted, 

And merer nnto all that have offended. 

And grace to all : that all may be amended. 

'Sjcbol.as, B uBtmn. 



^nxaiiiva. 

The bird that soais on hi^iest wing 
Bnilds on the groond her lowly nest ; 

And :^ie that doth mog^ sweetly sing 
Sings in the shade, wheie all things rest; 

In lark and nightingale we see 

What honor hath humility. 

When Mary ehc«se *• 'h-r ZK'.'.rT t srt," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' ieec ; 
And Lydia's graitly opened heart 

Was made for God's own temple meet : 
Fairest and best adorned is she 
Whose «*lnrhing is humility. 

The saint that wears heaven's btightest crown. 

In deepest adoration bends : 
The weight of glory bows him down 

Then most, when most Ids sool aseoids : 
Xeaiest the throne itself must be 
The footstool of humility. 

Jajoss Motttgoxekt. 



itn a Prapcr-Book Sent to XHrs. ill. U. 

I»! here a little volume, bat great book, 

(Fear it not, sweet — 

It is no hypocrite !) 
Modi larger in itself than in its look ! 

It is — in one rich handful — heaven and all 

Heaven's myal hosts encamped — thus small 

To prove, that true schoob use to telL 

A thousand angels in one pcMnt can dw^ 

It is love*? great artillery. 

Which here contracts itselt and comes to lie 



CIms^ couched in your white bosom. and from 

thoiee. 
As from a snowy fortress of def^K-e. 
Against the ^lostly foe to take your part. 
And fortify the hfAd of your diaste heart. 

It is the armory of light — 

Let cfMistant use but keep it bright. 

Youll find it yields 
To holy hands and humUe hearts 

More swords and shields 
Thandn hath snares. <»- hdl hath darts. 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 
That hcdd these weapons, and the eyes 
Thcee of turtles — chaste and true. 

Wakeful and wise. 
Here is a friend ^laU fight for you ; 
Hold but this book befcMe vour heart — 
Let prayer alone to play his pan. 

But oh : the heart 
That studies this high art 
Must be a sure house-keepo; 
And yet no ^e^yo*. 

Dear souL be strtmg — 
Mercy will ecnne ere long. 
And bring her bosom full of Uesang? — 

Flowers of never-fading gT»f^f^. 
To make immortal dresdngs 

For worthy souls, whose wise • :s 

Store up themselves for Him who > 
The spouse of virgins, and the vir^.^/- --a. 

But if the noble bridegixxHn, whoi he comes, 
Shall find the wand»ing heart from home. 
Leaving her diaste abode 
To gad almMkd — 
Amongst the gay mates ot the god of flies 
To take her {deasores. and to play. 
And keep the devil's holiday — 
To dance in the sunshine of some smiling; 
But beguiUi^ — 

Spear of sweet and sugared lies — 

SomesIippaT pair 

Of liaise, perhaps as fair. 
Flattering but forswearing eyes — 



818 



POEMS OF BELIGIQ2i\ 



Doubtless some other heait 
Will get the start, 
And, stepping in before, 
Will take possession of the sacred store 
Of hidden sweets and holy joys — 
Words which are not heard with ears, 
(These tumultuous shops of noise) 
Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears — 

Amorous languishments. luminous trances, 

Sights which are not seen with eves — 
Spiritual and soul -piercing glances, 
Whose pure and subtle lightning flies 
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, 
And melts it down in sweet desire ; 

Yet doth not stay 
To ask the windows leave to pass that way — 
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations — 
A thousand unknown rites 
Of joys and rarefied delights — 
An hundred thousand loves and graces. 

And many a mystic thing 
Which the divine embraces 
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring. 

For which it is no shame 
That dull mortality must not know a name. 
Of all this hidden store 
Of blessings, and ten thousand more. 

If. when He come. 
He find the heart from home, 
Doubtless He will unload 
Himself some otherwhere. 
And pour abroad 
His precious sweets 
On the fair soul whom fii*st He meets. 

Oh fair ! oh fortunate ! oh rich ! oh dear ! 
Oh happy and thrice happy she — 

Dear silver-breasted dove. 
Whoe'er she be — 
Whose early love 
With winged vows 
Makes haste to meet her morning spouse. 
And close with His immortal kisses — 
Happy soul I who never misses 

To improve that precious hour, 



And eveiy day 

Seize her sweet prey — 
All fresh and fragrant as He rises, 
Dropping with a balmy shower, 
A delicious dew of spices ! 

Oh I let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful ; she shall taste 
At once ten thousand paradises — 
She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 
The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets 
Which, with a swelling bosom, there she meets- 
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 
Of pure inebriating pleasures : 
Happy soul I she shall discover 
What joy, what bliss, 
How many heavens at once, it is 
To have a God become her lover. 

Richard Crashaw, 



^tic Zxnc Use of Xllusic. 

Listed into the cause of sin, 

Why should a good be evil ? 
Music, alas I too long has been 

Pressed to obey the devil — 
Drunken, or lewd, or light, the lav 

Flowed to the soul's undoing — 
Widened and strewed with flowers, way 

Down to eternal ruin. 

Who on the part of God will rise, 

Innocent sound recover — 
Fly on the prey, and take the prize. 

Plunder the carnal lover — 
Strip him of every moving strain, 

Every melting measure — 
Music in virtue's cause retain. 

Rescue the holy pleasure f 

Come let us try if Jesus' love 

Will not as well inspire us ; 
This is the theme of those above — 

This upon earth shall fire us. 
Say. if your hearts are tuned to sing 

Is there a subject greater? 
Harmony all its strains may bring ; 

Jesus' name is sweeter. 



THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 810 


Jesus the soul of music is — 


The good, the fruitful ground 


His is the noblest passion ; 


Expect not here nor there ; 


Jesus' name is joy and peace, 


O'er hill and dale by plots 'tis found ; 


Happiness and salvation ; 


Go forth, then, everywhere. 


Jesus' name the dead can raise — 




Show us our sins forgiven — 


Thou know'st not which may thrive — 


Fill us with all the life of grace — 


The late or early sown ; 


Carry us up to heaven. 


Grace keeps the precious germs alive, 




When and wherever strewn. 


Who hath a right like us to sing — 




Us whom His mercy raises ? 


And duly shall appear, 


Merry our hearts, for Christ is King ; 


In verdure, beauty, strength, 


Cheerful are all our faces ; 


The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, 


Who of His love doth once partake 


And the full corn at length. 


He evermore rejoices ; 




Melody in our hearts we make — 


Thou canst not toil hi vain — 


Melody with our voices. 


Cold, heat, and moist, and dry 




Shall foster and mature the grain 


He that a sprinkled conscience hath — 


For garners in the sky. 


He that in God is merry — 




Let him sing psalms, the Spirit saith, 


Thence, when the glorious end, 


Joyful and never weary ; 


The day of God is come, 


Offer the sacrifice of praise. 


The angel-reapers shall descend. 


Hearty and never ceasing — 


And heaven cry " Harvest home ! " 


Spiritual songs and anthems raise, 


James Montgomery. 


Honor, and thanks, and blessing. 




Then let us in His praises join — 




Triumph in Ilis salvation ; 


^\\c illiivtm-G' i)iimu. 


Glory ascribe to love divine, 




Worship and adoration ; 


Flung to the heedless winds, 


Heaven already is begun — 


Or on the waters cast, 


Opened in each believer ; 


The martyrs' ashes, watched, 


Only believe, and still sing on : 


Shall gathered be at last ; 


Heaven is ours for ever. 


And from that scattered dust. 


Charlks Weslet. 


xVround us and abroad. 




Shall spring a plenteous seed 




Of witnesses for God. 


Oriie ficlb of tl)c toorib. 


The Father hath received 


Sow in the morn thy seed, 


Their latest living breath ; 


At eve hold not thine hand — 


And vain is Satan's boast 


To doubt and fear give thou no heed — 


Of victory in their death ; 


Broad-cast it o'er the land. 


Still, still, though dead, they speak. 




And trumpet-tongued proclaim. 


Beside all waters sow, 


To many a wakening land. 


The highway furrows stock — 


The one availing name. 


Drop it where thorns and thistles grow. 


MaUTIX LlTHER. 


Scatter it on the rock. 


Translation of William John Fox. 



820 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



tol}at is Prater? 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, 

Uttered or unexpressed — 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear — 
The upward glancing of an eye, 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can try — 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The majesty on high. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways, 
While angels in their songs rejoice, 

And cry, " Behold he prays ! " 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath — 

The Christian's native air — ■ 
His watchword at the gates of death — 

He enters heaven with prayer. 

The saints in prayer appear as one 

In word, and deed, and mind. 
While with the Father and the Son 

Sweet fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made by man alone — 

The Holy Spirit pleads — 
And Jesus, on the eternal throne, 

For sinners intercedes. 

Thou by whom we come to God — 

The life, the truth, the way ! 
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod ; 

Lord, teach us how to pray ! 

James Montgomery. 



In darker days and nights of storm. 
Men knew Thee but to fear thy form ; 
And in the reddest lightning saw 
Thine arm avenge insulted law. 



In brighter days we read Thy love 
In flowers beneath, in stars above ; 
And in the track of every storm 
Behold Thy beauty's rainbow form. 

And in the reddest lightning's path 
We see no vestiges of wrath, 
But always wisdom, — perfect love, 
From flowers beneath to stars above. 

See, from on high sweet influence rains 
On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ; 
No hour of wrath shall mortal fear. 
For Thou, the God of Love, art here. 

Theodore Parker. 



toust in protJibence. 

While Thee I seek, protecting Power, 

Be my vain wishes stilled ; 
And may this consecrated hour 

With better hopes be filled. 

Thy love the power of thought bestowed ; 

To Thee my thoughts would soar : 
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed ; 

That mercy I adore ! 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul more dear 

Because conferred by Thee ! 

In every joy that crowns my days. 

In every pain I bear, 
My heart shall find delight in praise, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favored hour. 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 

Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower. 
My soul shall meet Thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear. 
The gathering storm shall see ; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear : 
That heart shall rest on Thee ! 

Helen Maria Williams. 



OH, YET WE TRUST. 



821 



©I), net tDC Artist. 

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet, 
That not one life shall be destroyed. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold ! we know not any thing ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all — 

And every winter change to spring. 

So rans my dream ; but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night — 
An infant crying for the light — 

And with no language but a cry. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



When the angels all are singing, 
All of glory ever-springing, 
In the ground of heaven's high graces 
Where all virtues have their places. 
Oh that my poor soul were near them, 
With an humble faith to hear them ! 

Then should faith, in love's submission. 
Joying but in mercy's blessing, 

Where that sins are in remission 
Sing the joyful soul's confessing — 

Of her comforts high commending, 

All in glory never-ending. 

But, ah wretched sinful creature ! 
How should the corrupted nature 



Of this wicked heart of mine 
Think upon that love divine, 
That doth tune the angels' voices 
While the host of heaven rejoices ? 

Xo ! the song of deadly sorrow 

In the night that hath no morrow — 

And their pains are never ended 

That have heavenly powers offended — 

Is more fitting to the merit 

Of my foul infected spirit. 

Yet while mercy is removing 
All the sorrows of the loving, 
How can faith be full of blindness 
To despair of mercy's kindness — 
While the hand of Heaven is giving 
Comfort from the ever-living ? 

No, my soul, be no more sorry — 
Look unto that life of glory 
Which the grace of faith regardeth, 
And the tears of love rewardeth — 
Where the soul the comfort getteth 
That the angels' music setteth. 

There — when thou art well conducted. 
And by heavenly grace instructed 
How the faithful thoughts to fashion 
Of a ravished lovers passion — 
Sing with saints, to angels nighest, 
Hallelujah in the highest ! 

Gloria in excelsis Domino ! 

Nicholas Breton. 



(!:ifl)ortation to Pvaricr. 

Not on a praycrless bed, not on a prayerless bed 
Compose thy weary limbs to rest ; 
For they alone are blessed 
With balmy sleep 
Whom atigels keep; 
Nor, tlioiigh by care oppressed. 
Or anxious sorrow, 
Or thought in many a coil perplexed 
For coming nu^rrow. 
I^ay not thy head 
On praycrless bed. 



823 



P0E21S OF RELIGION. 



For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close, 
That earthly cares and woes 
To thee may e'er return ? 
Arouse, my soul ! 
Slumber control, 
And let thy lamp burn brightly ; 

So shall thine eyes discern 
Things pure and sightly ; 
Taught by the Spirit, learn 
Never on prayerless bed 
To lay thine unblest head. 

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, 
That calls for holy prayer ? 
Has thy day been so bright 

That in its flight 
There is no trace of sorrow ? 
And thou art sure to-morrow 
Will be like this, and more 
Abundant ? Dost thou yet lay up thy store 
And still make plans for more? 

Thou fool ! this very night 
Thy soul may wing its flight. 

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, 
That ploughs the ocean deep, 
And when storms sweep 
The wintry, lowering sky, 
For whom thou wak'st and weepest ? 
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest. 
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer ; 
For He that slumbereth not is there — 
His ear is open to thy cry. 
Oh, then, on prayerless bed 
Lay not thy thoughtless head. 

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber, 
Till in communion blest 
With the elect ye rest — • 
Those souls of countless number ; 
And with them raise 
The note of praise, 
Reaching from earth to heaven — 
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven ; 
So lay thy happy head. 
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 

Margaret Mercer. 



iHarg. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer; 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But — he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 

Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

Alfred Tennyson. 



la^ anb peace in fieliciiing. 

S0MET131ES a light surprises 

The Christian while he sings; 
It is the Lord, who rises 

With healing in His wings. 
When comforts are declining. 

He grants the soul again 
A season of clear shining, 

To cheer it after rain. 

In holy contemplation. 

We sweetly then pursue 
The theme of God's salvation, 

And find it ever new ; 
Set free from present sorrow, 

We cheerfully can say. 
E'en let the unknown to-morrow 

Bring with it what it may ! 

It can bring with it nothing 
But He will bear us through ; 

Who gives the lilies clothing 
Will clothe His people too. 



CHARITY. 823 


Beneath the spreading heavens, 


Knowledge shall vanish out of thought, 


No creature but is fed ; 


And miracles no more be wrought ; 


And He who feeds the ravens 


But charity shall never fail — 


Will give His children bread. 


Her anchor is within the veil. 




James Moktgomery. 


The vine nor fig-tree neither 




Their wonted fruit should bear, 




Though all the fields should wither, 
Nor flocks nor herds be there : 


IDesiring to Coue. 


Yet God the same abiding 


Love divine, how sweet Thou art ! 


His praise shall tune my voice, 


When shall I find my willing heart 


For, while in Plim confiding, 


All taken up by Thee f 


I cannot but rejoice. 


I thirst, and faint, and die to prove 


William Cowper. 


The greatness of redeeming love. 




The love of Christ to me. 




Stronger His love than death or hell ; 


Charity. 


Its riches are unsearchable ; 


Could I command, with voice or pen, 
The tongues of angels and of men, 
A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass. 
My speech and preaching would surpass ; 


The first-born sons of light 
Desire in vain its depths to see — 
They cannot reach the mystery, 

The length, and breadth, and height. 


Vain were such eloquence to me. 


God only knows the love of God — 


Without the grace of charity. 


that it now were shed abroad 




In this poor stony heart ! 


Could I the martyr's flame endure. 


For love I sigh, for love I pine ; 


Give all my goods to feed the poor — 


This only portion. Lord, be mine — 


Had I the faith from Alpine steep 


Be mine this better part. 


To hurl the mountain to the deep — 




What were such zeal, such power to me 


that I could for ever sit 


Without the grace of charity "? 


With Mary at the Master's feet ! 




Be this my happy choice — 


Could I behold with prescient eye 


My only care, delight, and bliss. 


Things future, as the things gone by — 


My joy, my heaven on earth, be this — 


Could I all earthly knowledge scan. 


To hear the bridegroom's voice. 


And mete out heaven with a span — 
Poor were the chief of gifts to me 
Without the chiefest, charity. 


Oh that, with humbled Peter, I 
Could weep, believe, and thrice reply. 
My faithfuhiess to prove ! 


Charity suffers long, is kind — 
Charity bears a humble mind, 
Rejoices not when ills befall. 


Thou knowest, for all to Thee is known — 
Thou knowest, Lord, and Thou alone — 
Thou knowest that Thee I love. 


But glories in the weel of all ; 


that 1 could, with favored John, 


She hopes, believes, and envies not. 


Kecline my weary head upon 


Nor vaunts, nor murmurs o'er her lot. 


The dear Kodeemer's breast ! 




From care, and sin, and sorrow free, 


The tongues of teachers shall be dumb. 


Give me, Lord, to find in Thee 


Prophets discern not things to come, 


My everlasting rest ! 



824 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


Thy only love do I require — 


Make me Thy duteous child, that I 


Nothing in earth beneath desire, 


Ceaseless may " Abba, Father," cry ! 


Nothing in heaven above ! 




Let earth and heaven and all things go — 


Ah, no ! ne'er will I backward turn — 


Give me Thy only love to know, 


Thine wholly, Thine alone I am ; 


Give me Thy only love ! 


Thrice happy he who views with scorn 


Charles Wesley. 


Earth's toys, for Thee his constant flame. 




Oh, help, that I may never move 




From the blest footsteps of Thy love ! 


?Dit)ine Cotje. 


Each moment draw from earth away 


Thou hidden love of God ! whose height, 


My heart, that lowly waits Thy call ; 


Whose depth imfathomed, no man knows — 


Speak to my inmost soul, and say. 


J. / 

I see from far Thy beauteous light, 


" I am thy love, thy God, thy all ! " 


Inlv I sigh for Thy repose. 


To feel Thy power, to hear Thy voice, 


My heart is pained ; nor can it be 


To taste Thy love, be all my choice. 


At rest till it finds rest in Thee. 


Gerhard Tersteegen. (German.) 




Translation of John Wesley. 


Thy secret voice invites me still 




The sweetness of Thy yoke to prove ; 




And fain I would ; but though my will 


^ox BcUeuers. 


Seem fixed, yet wide my passions rove ; 




Yet hindrances strew all the way — 


Thou hidden source of calm repose, 


I aim at Thee, yet from Thee stray. 


Thou all-sufiicient love divine. 




My help and refuge from my foes. 


'Tis mercy all, that Thoa hast brought 


Secure I am if Thou art mine ! 


My mind to seek her peace in Thee ! 


And lo ! from sin, and grief, and shame, 


Yet while I seek, but find Thee not. 


I hide me, Jesus, in Thy name. 


No peace my wandering soul shall see. 




Oh when shall all my wanderings end, 


Thy mighty name salvation is, 


And all my steps to Theeward tend ? 


And keeps my happy soul above ; 




Comfort it brings, and power, and peace, 


Is there a thing beneath the sun 


And joy, and everlasting love ; 


That strives with Thee my heart to share *? 


To me, with Thy dear name, are given 


Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone — 


Pardon, and holiness, and heaven. 


The Lord of every motion there ! 




Then shall my heart from earth be free, 


Jesus, my all in all Thou art — 


When it hath found repose in Thee. 


My rest in toil, my ease in pain ; 




The medicine of my broken heart ; 


Oh hide this self from me, that I 


In war my peace ; in loss my gain ; 


No more, but Christ in me, may live ! 


My smile beneath the tyrant's frown ; 


My vile affections crucify. 


In shame my glory and my crown : 


Nor let one darling lust survive I 




In all things nothing may I see, 


In want my plentiful supply ; 


Nothing desire or seek, but Thee. 


In weakness my almighty power ; 




In bonds my perfect liberty ; 


Love, Thy sovereign aid impart 


My light in Satan's darkest hour; 


To save me from low-thoughted care ; 


In gri ^f my joy unspeakable ; 


Chase this self-will through all my heart, 


My life in death, my heaven in hell. 


Through all its latent mazes there ; 


Charles Wesley. 



^ 

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. ' 825 


1 


When the flames and hellish cries 


Citann to tl)c i^oiii Gpirit. 


Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes. 




And all terrors me surprise, 


In the hour of my distress, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


When temptations me oppress, 




And when I my sins confess. 


When the judgment is revealed. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And that opened which was sealed — 


When I lie within my bed, 


When to Thee I have appealed, 


Sick at heart, and sick in head, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And with doubts discomforted. 


Egbert Herrick. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 




When the house doth sigh and weep, 




And the world is drowned in sleep. 


^\)t DmuQ (Cliristian to l)is Gonl. 


Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Vital spark of heavenly flame. 




Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 


When the artless doctor sees 


Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 


Xo one hope, but of his fees. 


Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 


And his skill runs on the lees, 


Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife. 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


And let me languish into life ! 


When his potion and his pill, 
His or none or little skill, 


Hark ! they whisper : angels say, 


Meet for nothing, but to kill — 


Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


X ' 


Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 


When the passing-bell doth toll, 


Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 


And the Furies, in a shoal. 


Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 


Come to fright a parting soul, 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


The world recedes — it disappears; 




Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 


When the tapers now burn blue, 


With sounds serai)hic ring : 


And the comforters are few, 


Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! 


And that number more than true. 


grave, where is thy victory f 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


death, where is thy sting ? 


W^hcn the priest his last hath prayed. 


Alexander Pope. 


And I nod to what is said 




Because my speech is now decayed. 




Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 




X 7 -^ w 


CDl), fiixx not iTliou to Die. 


Wlien, God knows, I'm tost about 




Either with despair or doubt, 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 


Yet before the fflass be out. 


Far rather fear to live I — for life 


C7 ' 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 




By peril, pain, and strife. 


When the tempter me pursu'th 


Brief is the work of death ; 


With the sins of all my youth, " 


But life — the spirit shrinks to see 


And half damns me with untruth, 


How full, ere Heaven recalls the breath, 


Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


The cup of woe may be. 



826 POEMS OF 


RELIGIOX. 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 




Xo more to suffer or to sin — 


^\\t ^axib bcrioub tl)c ^ca. 


No snare without, thy faith to try — 




No traitor heart within ; 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


But fear, oh rather fear 


When will life's task be o'er ? 


The gay, the light, the changeful scene. 


When shall we reach that soft blue shore. 


The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 


O'er the dark strait whose billows foam and roar ? 


From heaven thy heart to wean. 


When shall we come to thee, 




Calm Land beyond the Sea ? 


Oh, fear not thou to die — 




To die and be that blessed one 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


Who in the bright and beauteous sky 


How close it often seems, 


May feel his conflict done — 


When flushed with evening's peaceful gleams : 


May feel that never more 


And the wistful heart looks o'er the strait, and 


The tear of grief, of shame, shall come, 


dreams ! 


For thousand wanderings from the power 


It longs to fly to thee. 


Who loved and called thee home. 


Calm Land bevond the Sea ! 


Anonymous. 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




Sometimes distinct and near 




It grows upon the eye and ear, 


. Hest i0 not ^m. 


And the gulf narrows to a threadlike mere ; 




We seem half-way to thee. 


W^HAT 's this vain world to me ? 
Rest is not here ; 


Calm Land beyond tlie Sea ! 


False are the smiles I see, 


The Land beyond the Sea I 


The mirth I hear. 


Sometimes across the strait, 


Where is youth's joyful glee ! 


Like a drawbridge to a castle-gate. 


Where all once dear to me ? 


The slanting sunbeams lie, and seem to wait 


Gone as the shadows flee — 


For us to pass to thee. 


Rest is not here. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Why did the morning shine 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


Blithely and fair ? 


Oh, how the lapsing years, 


Why did those tints so fine 


'Mid our not unsubmissive tears. 


Vanish in air f 


Have borne, now singly, now in fleets, the biers 


Does not the vision say, 


Of those we love to thee. 


Faint lingering heart, away, 


Calm Land beyond the Sea I 


Why in this desert stay — 




Dark land of care ! 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




How dark our present home ! 


Where souls angelic soar, 


By the dull beach and sullen foam 


Thither repair : 


How wearily, how drearily we roam, 


Let this vain world no more 


With arms outstretched to thee. 


Lull and ensnare. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


That heaven I love so well 




Still in my heart shall dwell ; 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


All things around me tell 


When will our toil be done ? 


Rest is found there. 


Slow-footed years, more swiftly run 


Lady Nairne. 


Into the gold of that unsetting sun ! 



THE LAND G 


•' THE LEAL, 827 


Homesick we are for thee, 


hand ye leal and true, John ; 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Your day it 's wearin' through, John, 


! 


And I'll welcome you 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 


To the land o' the leal. 


Why fadest thou in light ? 


Now fare ye weel, my ain John ! 


. Why art thou better seen toward night ? 


This warld's cares are vain, John ; 


Dear Land, look always plain, look always bright, 


We'll meet, and we'll be fain, 


That we may gaze on thee, 


r the land o' the leal. 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Lady Nairxe. 


The Land beyond the Sea ! 




Sweet is thine endless rest, 


finmn. 


But sweeter far that Father's breast 


-^ 1WK 


Upon thy shores eternally possest ; 


Brother, thou art gone before us, 


For Jesus reigns o'er thee. 


And thy saintly soul is flown 


Calm Land beyond the Sea ! 


Where tears are wiped from every eye, 


Fkedekick William Faber. 


And sorrow is unknown — 




From the burden of the flesh. 




And from care and sin released. 




Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


(Tlic €anb o^ tl)c £cal. 


And the weary are at rest. 


I'm wearin' awa', John, 


The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o'er, 


Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John ; 


' And hast borne the heavy load ; 


I'm wearin' awa' 


But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet 


To the land o' the leal. 


To reach His blest abo.de. 


There 's nae sorrow there, John ; 


Thou 'rt sleeping now. like Lazarus, 


There 's neither cauld nor care, John ; 


On his Father's faithful breast. 


The day is aye fair 


W^here the wicked cease from troubling, 


I' the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 


Our bonnie bairn 's there. John ; 


Sin can never taint thee now. 


She was baitli gude and fair, John ; 


Nor can doubt thy faith assail ; 


And oh, we grudged her sair 


Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 


To the land o' the leal. 


And the Holy Spirit fail. 


But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 


And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, 


And joy 's a-comin' fast, John, 


Whom on earth thou Invest best, 


The joy that 's aye to last 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


I' the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 


Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John, 


" Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 


Sae free the l)attle fought. John, 


Thus the solemn priest hath said — 


That sinfu' man e'er brought 


So we lay the turf above thee now, 


To the land o' the leal. 


And seal thy narrow lied : 


dry your glistening e'e, John. 


But thy spirit, brother, soars away 


My soul langs to be free, John, 


Among the faithful blest. 


And angels beckon me 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


To the land o' the leal. 


And the weary are at rest. 



838 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


And when the Lord shall summon us 


The Saviour has passed through its portals before 


Whom thou now hast left behind. 


thee, 


May we, untainted by the world, 


And the lamp of His love is thy guide through 


As sure a welcome find ; 


the gloom. 


May each, like thee, depart in peace, 




To be a glorious guest, 


Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer behold 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


thee. 


And the weary are at rest ! 


Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 


Henry Hart Milman. 


But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold 




thee. 




And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. 


6t5mn. 




-/ ^a^ 


Thou art gone to the grave — and, its mansion for- 


When rising from the bed of death, 


saking, 


O'erwhelmed with guilt and fear, 


Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt Imgered long. 


1 see my Maker face to face. 


But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy 


Oh, how shall I appear ? 


waking. 




And the song which thou heard'st was the sera- 


If yet while pardon may be found. 
And mercy may be sought, 


phim's song. 


My heart with inward horror shrinks. 


Thou art gone to the grave — but 'twere wrong to 


And trembles at the thought — 


deplore thee. 


When Thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 


When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy 


In majesty severe. 


guide ; 


And sit in judgment on my soul, 


He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore 


Oh, how shall I appear ? 


thee. 




Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour 


But Thou hast told the troubled mind 


hath died. Reginald Heber. 


Who does her sins lament. 




The timely tribute of her tears 




Shall endless woe prevent. 




X 


Dcatl]. 


Then see the sorrows of my heart 




Ere yet it be too late, 


Ah, lovely appearance of death ! 


And hear my Saviour's dying groans 


What siglit upon earth is so fair ? 


To give those sorrows weight. 


Xot all the gay pageants that breathe 




Can with a dead body compare ; 


For never shall my soul despair 


With solemn delight I survey 


Her pardon to procure. 


The corpse, when the spirit is fled — 


Wlio knows Thine only Son has died 


In love with the beautiful clay. 


To make her pardon sure. 


And longing to lie in its stead. 


Joseph Addison. 






How blest is our brother, bereft 


■• 


Of all that could burden his mind ! 


^\)oxy art ©one to tlic (5raiie. 


How easy the soul that has left 




This wearisome body behind ! 


Thou art gone to the grave — but we will not de- 


Of evil incapable, thou. 


plore thee, 


Whose relics with envy I see — 


Though sorrows and darkness encompass the 


No longer in misery now, 


tomb ; 


No longer a sinner like me. 



FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW. 829 




This earth is affected no more 


And now my life's delight is gone, 




With sickness, or shaken with pain ; 


Alas, how am I left alone ! 




The war in the members is o'er, 






And never shall vex him again ; 


The voice which I did more esteem 




No anger henceforward, or shame, 


Than music in her sweetest key. 




Shall redden this innocent clay ; 


Those eyes which unto me did seem 




Extinct is the animal flame, 


More comfortable than the day — 




And passion is vanished away. 


Those now by me, as they have been. 
Shall never more be held or seen ; 




This languishing head is at rest — 


But what I once enjoyed in them 




Its thinking and aching are o'er ; 


Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 




This quiet, immovable breast 






Is heaved by affliction no more ; 


All earthly comforts vanish thus — 




This heart is no longer the seat 


So little hold of them have we 




Of trouble and torturing pain ; 


That we from them or they from us 




• It ceases to flutter and beat — 


May in a moment ravished be ; 




It never shall flutter again. 


Yet we are neither just nor wise 
If present mercies we despise, 


• 


The lids he so seldom could close, 


Or mind not how there may be made 




By sorrow forbidden to sleep — 


A thankful use of what we had. 




Sealed up in their mortal repose, 






Have strangely forgotten to weep — 


I .therefore do not so bemoan, 




The fountains can yield no supplies — 
These hollows from water are free ; 


Though these beseeming tears I drop, 
The loss of my beloved one 




The tears are all wiped from these eyes. 


As they that are deprived of hope ; 




And evil they never shall see. 


But in expressing of my grief 
My heart receiveth some relief. 




To mourn and to suffer is mine. 


And joyeth in the good I had. 




While bound in a prison I breathe, 


Although my sweets are bitter made. 




And still for deliverance pine, 






And press to the issues of death ; 


Lord, keep me faithful to the trust 




What now with my tears I bedew 
Oh might I this moment become ! 


' 1. 

Which my dear spouse reposed in me ! 
To him now dead preserve me just 




My spirit created anew. 


In all that should performed be ; 




My flesh be consigned to the tomb ! 


For though our being man and wife 




Charles Wesley. 


Extendeth only to this life, 

Yet neither life nor death should end 

The being of a faithful friend. 




£ox a tDiboujcr or fcOibouj 


Those helps which I through him enjoyed, 




DEPRIVED OF A LOVING YOKEFELLOW. 


Let Thy continual aid supply — 
That, though some hopes in him are void, 




How near me came the hand of death, 


I always may on Thee rely ; 




When at my side he struck my dear, 


And whether I shall wed again. 




And took away the precious breath 


Or in a single state remain, 




Which quickened my beloved peer I 


Unto Thine honor let it be, 




How helpless am I thereby made — 


And for a blessing unto me. 




By day how grieved, by night how sad. 


George Wither. 



830 POEMS OF 


RELIGIOy. 




Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 


(J^liett tir^ ^ii (50ne. 


My perspective still as they pass ; 




Or else remove me hence unto that hill 


They are all gone into the world of light, 


Where I shall need no glass. 


And I alone sit lingering here ! 


Henry Vaughan. 


Their very memory is fair and bright, 




And my sad thoughts doth clear ; 




It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 


^ttcl) SorrotDfttl iUoitrncr. 


Like stars upon some gloomy grove — 




Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 


Each sorrowful mourner, be silent ! 


After the sun's remove. 


Fond mothers, give over your weeping ! 




Xor grieve for those pledges as perished — 


I see them walking in an air of glory. 


This dying is life's reparation. 


Whose light doth trample on my days — 




My days which are at best but dull and hoary. 


Xow take him, earth, to thy keeping. 


Mere glimmering and decays. 


And give him soft rest in thy bosom ; 


^ 


I lend thee the frame of a Christian — 


holy hope ! and high humility — 


I entrust thee the generous fragments. 


High as the heavens above ! 




These are your walks, and you have showed them me 


Thou holily guard the deposit — 


To kindle my cold love. 


He will well, He will surely, require it. 




Who, forming it, made its creation 


Dear, beauteous death — the jewel of the just — 


The type of His image and likeness. 


Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 




What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 


But until the resolvable body 


Could man outlook that mark 1 


Thou recallest, God, and reformest, 




What regions, unknown to the mortal. 


He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may 


Dost Thou will the pure soul to inhabit ? 


know, 




At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 


It shall rest upon Abraham's bosom. 


But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 


As the spirit of blest Eleazar, 


That is to him unknown. 


Whom, afar in that Paradise, Dives 




Beholds from the flames of his torments. 


And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 




Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 


We follow Thy saying, Redeemer, 


So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 


Whereby, as on death Thou wast trampling. 


themes, 


The thief, Thy companion, Thou willedst 


And into glory peep. 


To tread in Thy footsteps and triumph. 


If a star were confined into a tomb. 


To the faithful the bright way is open. 


Her captive flames must needs burn there : 


Henceforward, to Paradise leading. 


But when the hand that locked her up gives room, 


And to that blessed grove we have access 


She'll shine through all the sphere. 


Whereof man was bereaved by the serpent. 


Father of eternal life, and all 


Thou leader and guide of Thy people, 


Created glories under Thee ! 


Give command that the soul of Thy servant 


Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 


May have holy repose in the country 


Into true liberty. 


Whence, exile and erring, he wandered. 



— ^ 

A LITTLE WHILE. 831 


We will honor the place of his resting 


Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 


With violets and garlands of flowers, 


Beyond this pulse's fever beating. 


And will sprinkle inscription and marble 


I shall be soon. 


Wirh odors of costliest fragrance. 


Love, rest, and home ! 


AiRELit's Pbcdentius. (Latin.) 


Sweet hope ! 


Translation of John Masox Xeale. 


Lord, tarry not, hut come. 




Beyond the frost chain and the fever 




I shall be soon ; 


^ Cittle tol)ile. 


Beyond the rock waste and the river, 




Beyond the ever and the never. 


Beyond the smiling and the weeping 


I shall be soon. 


I shall be soon ; 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 


Sweet hope ! 


Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 


Lord, tarry not, hut come. 


I shall be soon. 


HORATIUS BONAR. 


Love, rest, and home / 




Sweet hope ! 




Lord, tarry not, hut come. 


(Dnr i^atlicr's ^omc. 


Beyond the blooming and the fading 


I SAY to thee, do thou repeat 


V I shall be soon ; 


To the first man thou mayest meet 


Beyond the shining and the shading, 


In lane, highway, or open street, — 


Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 




I shall be soon. 


That he, and we, and all men, move 


Love, rest, a?id home / 


Under a canopy of love 


Sweet hope ! 


As broad as the blue sky above ; 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 


Beyond the rising and the setting 


And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain : — 


I shall be soon ; 




Beyond the calming and the fretting, 


That weary deserts we may tread. 


Beyond remembering and forgetting, 


A dreary labyrinth may thread. 


I shall be soon. 


Through dark ways underground be led, — 


Love, rest, and home ! 




Sweet hope I 


Yet, if we will our Guide obey. 


Lord, tarry not. hut come. 


The dreariest path, the darkest way. 




Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 


Bevond the gathering and the strowing 




I shall be soon ; 


And we, on divers shores now cast. 


Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. 


Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 


Beyond the coming and the going, 


All in our Father's home at last. 




I shall be soon. 


And ere thou leave him, say thou this 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Yet one word more : They only miss 


Sweet hope ! 


The winning of that final blissj 


Lord, tarry not, hut come. 






Who will not count it true that love. 


Beyond the parting and the meeting 


Blessing not cursing, rules above. 


1 I shall be soon ; 

i 


And that in it we live and move. 



832 



POEMS OF RELIGIOy, 



And one thing further make him know, — 
That to believe these things are so, 
This firm faith never to forego, — 

Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, or with curses rife, — 
That this is blessing, this is life. 

Richard Chenetix Trench. 



C6ob X\)t Q^wcrlasting Ciglit of tl)e Saints 

abouc. 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all your feeble light ; 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, 

Pale empress of the night. 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed, 
My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 

Of my divine abode, 
The pavement of those heavenly courts 

Where I shall reign with God. 

The Father of eternal light 

Shall there His beams display, 
Xor shall one moment's darkness mix 

With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 

Shall swell into mine eyes, 
Nor the meridian sun decline 

Amidst those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of His saints 

Shall in one song unite, 
And each the bliss of all shall ^'iew 

With infinite delight. 

Philip Doddridge. 



QL\)t j5caocnlti (Canaan. 

There is a land of pure delight, 
Where saints immortal reign; 

Infinite day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 



There everlasting spring abides, 

And never- withering flowers ; 
Death, like a narrow sea, divides 

This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood. 
While Jordan rolled between. 

But ti morous mortals start and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea, 
And linger shivering on the brink. 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh I could we make our doubts remove. 
Those gloomy doubts that rise, 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes — 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 

And view the landscape o'er. 
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood. 

Should fright us from the shore. 

Isaac Watts. 



S^lie ^ctD li^rnsalcm; 

OR, THE soul's BREATHIXG AFTER THE HEAVENLY 
COUNTRY. 

" Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, 
Take this rude song in better part." 

3I0THER dear, Jerusalem, 

^\'Tien shall I come to thee? 
When shall my sorrows have an end — 

Thy joys when shall I see ? 
happy harbor of God's saints ! 

sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrows can be found — 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness is at all. 

No hurt, nor any sore ; 
There is no death nor ugly night, 

But life for evermore. 
No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, 

No cloud nor darksome night. 
But every soul shines as the sun — 

For God himself gi^-es light. 



1 

THE XEW JERUSALEM. 883 1 


There lust and lucre cannot dwell, 


But we that are in banishment, 


There envy bears no sway ; 


Continually do moan ; 


There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 


We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 


But pleasures every way. 


Perpetually we groan. 


Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 




Would God I were in thee ! 


Our sweetness mixed is with gall. 


Oh ! that my sorrows had an end, 


Our pleasures are but pain, 


Thy joys that I might see ! 


Our joys not worth the looking on — 




Our sorrows aye remain. 


No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 


But there they live in such delight. 


No woeful night is there ; 


Such pleasure and such play. 


No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 


That unto them a thousand years 


No well-away, no fear. 


Seems but as yesterday. 


Jerusalem the city is 




Of God our king alone ; 


my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 


The lamb of God, the light thereof, 


Thy joys when shall I see — 


Sits there upon His throne. 


The King sitting upon His throne, 




And thy felicity? 


God ! that I Jerusalem 


Thy vineyards, and thy orchards. 


With speed may go behold ! 


So wonderfully rare. 


For why ? the pleasures there abound 


Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, 


Which here cannot be told. 


Most beautifully fair. 


Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 




With carbuncles do shine — 


Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 


With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 


Continually are green ; 


Surpassing pure and fine. 


There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 




As nowhere else are seen. 


Thy houses are of ivory. 


There cinnamon and sugar grow. 


Thy windows crystal clear. 


There nard and balm abound ; 


Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 


No tongue can tell, no heart can think, 


There angels do appear. 


The pleasures there are found. 


Thy walls are made of precious stone, 




Thy bulwarks diamond square. 


There nectar and ambrosia spring — 


Thy gates are made of orient pearl — 


There music 's ever sweet ; 


God ! if I were there ! 


There many a fair and dainty thing 




Are trod down under feet. 


Within thy gates nothing can come 


Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, 


That is not passing clean : 


The flood of life doth flow; 


No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, 


Upon the banks, on CA'ery side, 


No filth may there be seen. 


The trees of life do grow. 


Jehovah, Lord, now come away, 




And end my griefs and plaints — 


These trees each month yield ripened fruit — 


Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 


For evermore they spring ; 


And place me with Thy saints ! 


And all the nations of the world 




To thee their honors liring. 


Who there are crowned with glory great. 


Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place. 


And see God face to face. 


Full sore I long to see : 


They triumph still, and aye rejoice — 


Oh ! that my sorrows had an end. 


Most happy is their case. 


That I might dwell in thee ! 


53 


• 



834 POEMS OF 


RELIGION. 


There David stands, with harp in hand, 


A lamb unspotted, white and pure, 


As master of the choir ; 


To thee doth stand in lieu 


A thousand times that man were blest 


Of light — so great the glory is 


That might his music hear. 


Thine heavenly king to view. 


There Mary sings " Magnificat," 




With tunes surpassing sweet ; 


He is the King of kings, beset 


And all the virgins bear their part, 


In midst His servants' sight : 


Singing about her feet. 


And they, His happy household all, 




Do serve Him day and night. 


" Te Deum," doth St. Ambrose sing, 


There, there the choir of angels sing — 


St. Austin doth the like ; 


There the supernal sort 


Old Simeon and Zacharie 


Of citizens, which hence are rid 


Have not their songs to seek. 


From dangers deep, do sport. 


There Magdalene hath left her moan, 




And cheerfully doth sing, 


There be the prudent prophets all, 


With all blest saints whose harmony 


The apostles six and six. 


Through every street doth ring. 


The glorious martyrs in a row, 


' 


And confessors betwixt. 


Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 


There doth the crew of righteous men 


Thy joys fain would I see ; 


And matrons all consist — 


Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief. 


Young men and maids that here on earth 


And take me home to Thee ; 


Their pleasures did resist. 


Oh ! paint Thy name on my forehead. 




And take me hence away. 


The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped 


That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, 


The snare of death and hell. 


And sing Thy praises aye. 


Triumph in joy eternally. 




Whereof no tongue can tell ; 


Jerusalem, the happy home — 


And though the glory of each one 


Jehovah's throne on high ! 


Doth differ in degree. 


sacred city, queen, and wife 


Yet is the joy of all alike 


Of Christ eternally ! 


And common, as we see. 


comely queen with glory clad. 




With honor and degree, 


There love and charity do reign, 


All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 


And Christ is all in all. 


No spot there is in thee ! 


Whom they most perfectly behold 




In joy celestial. 


I long to see Jerusalem, 


They love, they praise — they praise, they love ; 


The comfort of us all ; 


They " Holy, holy," cry ; 


For thou art fair and beautiful — 


They neither toil, nor faint, nor end. 


None ill can thee befall. 


But laud continually. 


In thee, Jerusalem, I say. 





No darkness dare appear — 


Oh ! happy thousand times were I, 


No night, no shade, no winter foul — 


If, after wretched days. 


No time doth alter there. 


I might with listening ears conceive 




Those heavenly songs of praise, 


No candle needs, no moon to shine, 


Which to the eternal king are sung 


No glittering star to light ; 


By happy wights above — 


For Christ, the king of righteousness, 


By saved souls and angels sweet, 


For ever shineth bright. 


Who love the God of love. 



THE FUTURE PEACE AXD GLORY OF THE CHURCH. 



835 



Oh I passing happy were my state, 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and king, 

His praises there to sound ; 
And to enjoy my Christ above, 

His favor and His grace, 
According to His promise made, 

Which here I interlace : 

" Father dear," quoth he, " let them 

Which Thou hast put of old 
To. me, be there where lo ! I am — 

Thy glory to behold ; 
Which I with Thee, before the world 

Was made in perfect wise, 
Have had — from whence the fountain great 

Of glory doth arise." 

Again : " If any man will serve 

Thee, let him follow me ; 
For where I am, he there, right sure. 

Then shall my servant be." 
And still : " If any man loves me. 

Him loves my Father dear. 
Whom I do love — to him myself 

In glory will appear." 

Lord, take away my misery, 

That then I may be bold 
With Thee, m Thy Jenisalem, 

Thy glory to behold : 
And so in Zion see my king, 

My love, my Lord, my all — 
Where now as in a glass I see, 

There face to face I shall. 

Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart — 

Their sovereign they shall see ; 
ye most happy, heavenly wights, 

Which of God's household be ! 
Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, 

These gins and fetters strong ; 
For 1 have dwelt within the tents 

Of Kedar over long. 

Yet search me. Lord, and find me out ! 

Fetch me Thy fold unto, 
That all Thy angels may rejoice, 

While all Thv will I do. 



mother dear ! Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end, 

Thy joys when shall I see ? 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from all strife, 
That to Thy hill I may attain. 

And dwell there all my life — 
With cherubim and seraphim 

And holy souls of men. 
To sing Thy praise, God of hosts ! 

Forever and amen ! 

AXOXTMOCS. 



Qi\\t -fxttnrc peace anb (5lorT} of tlie 
Cliurcli. 

Hear what God the Loixi hath spoken : 

" my people, faint and few. 
Comfortless, afflicted, broken, 

Fair abodes 1 build for you ^ 
Thorns of heartfelt tribulation 

Shall no more perplex your waysi 
You shall name your walls salvation. 

And your gates shall all be praise. 

" There, like streams that feed the garden. 

Pleasures without end shall flow ; 
For the Lord, your faith rewarding. 

All His bounty shall bestow. 
Still in undisturbed possession 

Peace and righteousness shall reign ; 
Xever shall you feel oppression. 

Hear the voice of war again, 

" Ye no more your suns descending. 

Waning moons no more shall see ; 
But, your griefs for ever ending, 

Find eternal noon in me. 
God shall rise, and. shining o'er you, 

Change to day the gloom of night ; 
He, the Lord, shall be vour fflorv, 

God your everlasting light." 

WnxiAai CowpER. 



836 



F0E3IS OF RELIGION. 



My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars, 
Where stands a winged sentry, 

All skilful in the wars. 

There, above noise and danger, 

Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, 

And One born in a manger 
Commands the beauteous files. 

He is thy gracious friend, 

And ( my soul awake ! ) 
Did in pure love descend, 

To die here for thy sake. 

If thou canst get but thither, 

There grows the flower of peace — 

The rose that cannot wither — 
Thy fortress, and thy ease. 

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges ; 

For none can thee secure, 
But One who never changes — 

Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 

Henry Vaughan. 



BEAUTEOUS God ! uncircumseribed treasure 
Of an eternal pleasure ! 

Thy throne is seated far 
Above the highest star, 
Where Thou preparest a glorious place, 
Within the brightness of Thy face, 
For every spirit 
To inherit 
That builds his hopes upon Thy merit, 
And loves Thee with a holy charity. 
What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or eyes 
Clear as the morning rise, 

Can speak, or think, or see 
That bright eternity. 
Where the great king's transparent throne 
Is of an entire jasper stone? 
There the eye 
0' the chrysolite, 
And a sky 



Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase — 
And above all. Thy holy face — 
Makes an eternal charity. 
When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind, that day 
Remember us, we pray — 

That where the beryl lies, 
And the crystal 'bove the skies. 
There Thou mayest appoint us place 
Within the brightness of Thy face — 
And our soul 
In the scroll 
Of life and blissfulness enroll. 
That we may praise Thee to eternity. Allelujah ! 

Jeremy Taylor. 



®l)e toiibernesB S^ransformcb. 

Amazing, beauteous change ! 

A world created new ! 
My thoughts with transport range, 
The lovely scene to view ; 
In all I traee. 
Saviour divine, 
The w^ork is Thine — 
Be Thine the praise ! 

See crystal fountains play 

Amidst the burning sands ; 
The river's winding way 

Shines through the thirsty lands ; 
New grass is seen, 
And o'er the meads 
Its carpet spreads 
Of living green. 

Where pointed brambles grew, 
Entwined with horrid thorn, 
Gay flowers, for ever new, 
The painted fields adorn — 
The blushing rose 
And lily there, 
In union fair 
Their sweets disclose. 

Where the bleak mountain stood 

All bare and disarrayed. 
See the wide-branching wood 

Diffuse its grateful shade ; 



PRAISE TO GOD. 



837 



Tall cedars nod, 
And oaks and pines, 
And elms and vines 

Confess the God. 

The tyrants of the plain 

Their savage chase give o'er — 
No more they rend the slain, 
And thirst for blood no more ; 
But infant hands 
Fierce tigers stroke. 
And lions yoke 
In flowery bands. 

Oh when, Almighty Lord, 

Shall these glad scenes arise. 
To verify Thy word, 

And bless our wondering eyes ! 
That earth may raise, 
With all its tongues. 
United songs 
Of ardent praise. 



Philip Doddridge. 



^U tDcll. 

No seas again shall sever. 

No desert intervene ; 
No deep, sad-flowing river 

Shall roll its tide between. 



No bleak cliffs, upward towering. 

Shall bound our eager sight ; 
No tempest, darkly lowering, 

Shall wrap us in its night. 

Love, and unsevered union 

Of soul with those we love, 
Nearness and glad communion, 

Shall be our joy above. 

No dread of wasting sickness, 

No thought of ache or pain, 
No fretting hours of weakness, 

Shall mar our peace again. 

No death, our homes o'ershading, 
Shall e'er our harps unstring; 

For all is life unfading 
In presence of our king. 

HOUATIUS BOXAR. 



Praise to (Sob. 

Praise to God, immortal praise. 
For the love that crowns our days — 
Bounteous source of every joy. 
Let Thy praise our tongues employ ! 

For the blessings of the field. 
For the stores the gardens yield, 
For the vine's exalted juice. 
For the generous olive's use ; 

Flocks that whiten all the plain, 
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain. 
Clouds that drop their fattening dews, 
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse — 

All that Spring, with bounteous hand, 
Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
All that liberal Autumn pours 
From her rich o'erflowing stores : 

These to Thee, my God, we owe — 
Source whence all our blessings flow ! 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the ripening ear — 
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
Drop her green untimely fruit — 

Should the vine put forth no more, 
Nor the olive yield her store — 
Though the sickening flocks should fall. 
And the herds desert the stall — 

Should Thine altered hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain. 
Blast each opening bud of joy, 
And the rising year destroy ; 

Yet to Thee my soul should raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 
And. when every blessing's flown. 
Love Thee — for Thyself alone. 

Anna L.rriTiA Barbaitld. 



838 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



bnti. Creator! 



Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, \dsit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on human kind ; 
From sin and sorrow set us free. 
And make Thy. temples worthy Thee ! 

source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 
To sanctify us while we sing I 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,' 

Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 

Thou strength of His almighty hand 

Whose power does heaven and earth command ! 

Proceeding Spirit, our defence. 

Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense. 

And crown'st thy gifts with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
But oh, inflame and fire our hearts ; 
Our frailties help, our vice control — 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown, 
Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe. 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; 
And, lest our feet should step astray. 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

3Iake us eternal truths receive. 
And practise all that we believe : 
Give us Thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame. 
Attend the almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified. 
Who for lost man's redemption died ! 
-Vnd equal adoration be. 
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 

St. Ambrose. (Latin.) 
Paraphrase of John Dryden. 



^l)e £orb tl)c Ooob 6l)C|]l}crb. 



I 



The Lord is my shepherd, no want shall 
know ; 
I feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest ; 
He leadeth my soul where the still waters fiow, 
Restores me when wandering, redeems when op 
pressed. 



Through the valley and shadow of death though I 
stray, 

Since Thou art my guardian no evil I fear ; 
Thy rod shall defend me, Thy staff be my stay ; 

No harm can befall with my Comforter near. 

In the midst of affliction my table is spread ; 

With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth 
o'er ; 
With perfume and oil Thou anointest my head; 

Oh ! what shall I ask of Thy Providence more f 

Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God ! 

Still follow my steps till I meet Thee above : 
I seek, by the path which my forefathers trod 

Through the land of their sojourn, Thy kingdom 
of love. James Montgomery. 



Sonnet. 

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed. 
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray ; 
My unassisted heart is barren clay. 
That of its native self can nothing feed. 
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed. 
That quickens only where thou say'st it may. 
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way, 
No man can find it : Father ! thou must lead. 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my 

mind 
By which such virtue may in me be bred 
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind. 
That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 
And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 

Michel Angelo. (Italian.) 
Translation of Samiel Wordsworth. 



PSALM THIRTEEN. 



8:^9 



Psalm (Tliirtccn. 

Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou 
Quite forget, and quite neglect me f 

How long, with a frowning brow, 

WHt Thou from Thy sight reject me f 

How long shall I seek a way 

Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed, 
Where ray grieved mind, night and day, 

Is with thinking tired and vexed f 
How long shall my scornful foe, 

On my fall his greatness placing, 
BuOd upon my overthrow. 

And be graced by my disgracing ? 

Hear. Lord and God, my cries ! 

Mark my foes' unjust abusing ; 
And illuminate mine eyes. 

Heavenly beams in them infusing — 
Lest my woes, too great to bear, 

And too infinite to number. 
Rock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear, 

Into death's eternal slumber — 

Lest my foes their boasting make : 
Spite of right, on him we trample ; 

And a pride in mischief take. 
Hastened by my sad example. 

As for me, I'll ride secure 

At Thy mercy's sacred anchor ; 
And, undaunted, will endure 

Fiercest storms of wrong and rancor. 

These black clouds will overblow — 

Sunshine shall have his returning ; 
And my grief-dulled heart. I know. 

Into mirth shall change his mourning. 
Therefore I'll rejoice, and sing 

Hymns to God. in sacred measure, 
Wlio to happy pass will bring 

My just hopes, at His good pleasure. 

Fkaxcis Davison. 



psalm (^ighttH^n, 

PART FIRST, 

God. my strength and fortitude, of force I must 

love Thee I 
Thou art my castle and defence in my necessity — 
My God. my r«x;k in whom I trust, the worker of 

my wealth. 
My refuge, buckler, and my shield, the horn of all 

my health. 

\rVhen I sing laud unto the Lord most worthy to 

be served. 
Then from my foes I am right sure that I shall be 

preserved 
The pangs of death did compass me, and bound 

me everywhere ; 
The flowing waves of wickedness did put me in 

great fear. 

The sly and subtle snares of hell were round about 

me set : 
And for ray death there was prepared a deadly 

trapping net. 
I, thus beset with pain and grief, did pray to God 

for grace ; 
And He forthwith did hear my plaint out of His 

holy place. 

Such is His power that in His wrath He made the 

earth to quake — 
Yea, the foundation of the mount of Basan for to 

shake. 
And from His nostrQs came a smoke, when kiiuUetl 

was His ire ; 
And from His mouth came kindled coals of hot 

consuming fire. 

The Lord descended from above, and bowed the 

heavens high ; 
And underneath His feet He cast the darkness of 

the sky. 
On cherubs and on cherubim full royally He rode : 
And on the wings of all the winds came flying all 



abroad. 



Thomas Stershold. 



840 



P0E31S OF RELIGIOX. 



Psalm ^Cineteen. 

The heavens declare Thy glory, Lord ! 

In every star Thy wisdom shines ; 
But when our eyes behold Thy word, 

We read Thy name in fairer lines. 

The rolling sun, the changing light, 
And nights and days Thy power confess ; 

But the blest volume Thou hast writ 
Reveals Thy justice and Thy grace. 

Sun, moon, and stars convey Thy praise 
Round the whole earth, and never stand ; 

So, when Thy truth begun its race 
It touched and glanced on every land. 

Nor shall Thy spreading gospel rest 

Till through the world Thy truth has run ; 

Till Christ has all the nations blest 
That see the light or feel the sun. 

Great sun of righteousness, arise ! 

Bless the dark world with heavenly light ; 
Thy gospel makes the simple wise — 

Thy laws are pure, Thy judgments right. 

Tiiy noblest wonders here we view, 
In souls renewed, and sins forgiven ; 

Lord, cleanse my sins, my soul renew. 

And make Thy word my guide to heaven I 

Isaac Watts. 



Psalm ^tDcntn-tlirce. 

God, who the universe doth hold 
In His fold. 
Is my shepherd, kind and heedful — 
Is my shepherd, and doth keep 
Me, His sheep. 
Still supplied with all things needful. 

He feeds me in His fields, which been 
Fresh and green. 
Mottled with spring's flowery painting — 
Through which creep, with murmuring crooks, 
Crystal brooks. 
To refresh my spirit's fainting. 



When my soul from heaven's way 
Went astray. 
With earth's vanities seduced, 
For His name's sake, kindly. He 
Wandering me 
To His holy fold reduced. 

Yea, though I stray through death's vale. 
Where His pale 
Shades did on each side enfold me, 
Dreadless, having Thee for guide. 
Should I bide ; 
For Thy rod and staff uphold me. 

Thou mv board with messes large 
Dost surcharge ; 
My bowls full of wine Thou pourest ; 
And before mine enemies' 
Envious eyes 
Balm upon my head Thou showerest. 

Neither dures Thy bounteous grace 
For a space ; 
But it knows no bound nor measure ; 
So my days, to my life's end, 
I shall spend 
In Thy courts with heavenly pleasure. 

Francis Davison. 



Psaim d^txjcntn-tljrce. 

Lo. my Shepherd's hand divine ! 
Want shall never more be mine. 
In a pasture fair and large 
He shall feed His happy charge. 
And my couch with tenderest care 
'Midst the springing grass prepare. 

When I faint with summer's heat, 
He shall lead my weary feet 
To the streams that, still and slow. 
Through the verdant meadows flow. 
He my soul anew shall frame; 
And, His mercy to proclaim. 
When through devious paths I stray, 
Teach my steps the better way. 



PSALM FORTY-SIX. 841 


Thoug^h the dreary vale I tread 


Sion enjoys her monarch's love, 


1 

, By the shades of death o'erspread ; 


Secure against a threatening hour; 


There I walk from terror free, 


Nor can her firm foundations move. 


While my every wish I see 


Built on His truth, and armed with power. 


By Thy rod and staff supplied — 


Isaac Watts. 


This my guard, and that my guide. 




While my foes are gazing on, 


TJsaim fortn-six. 


Thou Thy favoring care hast shown ; 


P,i s«^ 


Thou my plenteous board hast spread ; 


A SAFE stronghold our God is still, 


Thou with oil refreshed my head ; 


A trusty shield and weapon ; 


Filled by Thee, my cup o'erfiows ; 


He'll help us clear from all the ill 


For Thy love no limit know^s. 


That hath us now o'ertaken. 


Constant, to my latest end. 


The ancient prince of hell 


This my footsteps shall attend. 


Hath risen with purpose fell ; 


And shall bid Thy hallowed dome 


Strong mail of craft and power 


Yield me an eternal home. 


He weareth in this hour — 


James Merrick. 


On earth is not his fellow. 




By force of arms we nothing can — 




Full soon were we down-ridden ; 


'%*\ 1 d*' 


But for us fights the proper man, 


Psalm xox\\2-B\%. 


Whom God himself hath bidden. 


God is the refuge of His saints. 


Ask ye. Who is this same ] 




Christ Jesus is His name. 


When storms of sharp distress invade ; 


The Lord Zebaoth's son — ^. 


Ere we can offer our complaints, 
Behold Him present with His aid. 




He and no other one 
Shall conquer in the battle. 


Let mountains from their seats be hurled 


And were this world all devils o'er, 


Down to the deep, and buried there — 


And watching to devour us, 


1 ' 

Convulsions shake the solid world ; 


We lay it not to heart so sore — 


Our faith shall never yield to fear. 


Not they can overpower us. 


V 


And let the prince of ill 




Look grim as e'er he will. 


Loud may the troubled ocean roar ; 


He harms us not a whit ; 


In sacred peace our souls abide. 


For why % His doom is writ — 


While every nation, every shore. 


A word shall quicklv slay him. 


Trembles and dreads the swelling tide. 


X w • 




God's word, for all their craft and force, 




One moment will not linger; 


There is a stream whose gentle flow 


T^ •. 1*111 1111 * t 


o 


But, spite of hell, shall have its course — 
'Tis written bv His finger. 


Supplies the city of our God — 


Life, love, and joy still gliding through. 


And though they take our life, 


And watering our divine abode ; 


Goods, honor, children, wife, 




Yet is their profit small ; 


That sacred stream Thine holy word, 


These things shall vanish all — 


That all our raging foar controls ; 


The city of God remaineth. 


Sweet peace Thy promises afford. 


Maktin Lcther. (German.) 


And give new strength to fainting souls. 


Translation of Thomas Carlyle. 



842 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



Psalm Si?^t2-fit)e. 

SECOND PART. 

'Tis by Thy strength the mountains stand, 

God of eternal power ! 
The sea grows calm at Thy command, 

And tempests cease to roar. 

Thy morning light and evening shade 

Successive comforts bring ; 
Thy plenteous fruits make harvest glad — 

Thy flowers adorn the spring. 

Seasons and times, and moons and hours, 
Heaven, earth, and air, are Thine ; 

When clouds distil in fruitful showers, 
The author is divine. 

Those wandering cisterns in the sky, 

Borne by the winds around. 
With watery treasures well supply 

The furrows of the ground. 

The thirsty ridges drink their fill, 

And ranks of corn appear ; 
Thy ways abound with blessings still — 

Thy goodness crowns the year. 

Isaac Watts. 



Psalm (Due i^ixnbrcb. 

With one consent let all the earth 
To God their cheerful voices raise — 

Glad homage pay with awful mirth, 
And sing before Him songs of praise — 

Convinced that He is God alone. 

From whom both we and all proceed — 

We whom He chooses for His own, 
The flock which He vouchsafes to feed. 

Oh enter then His temple gate. 
Thence to his courts devoutly press ; 

And still your grateful hymns repeat, 
And still His name with praises bless. 



For He 's the Lord supremely good, 

His mercy is forever sure ; 
His truth, which all times firmly stood. 

To endless ages shall endure. 

Tate and Brady. 



^gmn. 

How are Thy servants blest, Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

Supported by Thy care, 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every soil, 

Made every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. 

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, my soul, devoutly think, 

How with affrighted eyes 
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep 

In all its horrors rise ! 

Confusion dwelt in every face. 

And fear in every heart. 
When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer 

My soul took hold on Thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the broken wave ; 
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired, 

Obedient to Thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at Thy command, 

At Thy command was still. 



HYMN. 



843 



In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, 

Thy goodness I'll adore — 
And praise Thee for Thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if Thou preserv'st my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to Thee. 

Joseph Addison. 



When all Thy mercies, my God, 

My rising soul surveys, 
Transported with the view, I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and praise. 

how shall words with equal warmth 

The gratitude declare. 
That glows within my ravished heart ? — 

But Thou canst read it there ! 

Thy providence my life sustained, 

And all my wants redrest. 
When in the silent womb I lay. 

And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and cries 

Thy mercy lent an ear. 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 

To form themselves in prayer. 

Unnumbered comforts to my soul 

Thy tender care bestowed, 
Before my infant heart conceived 

From whom those comforts flowed. 

When in the slippery paths of youth 

With heedless steps I ran. 
Thine arm unseen conveyed me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths, 

It gently cleared my way. 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 

More to be feared than they. 



When worn with sickness oft hast Thou 
With health renewed my face, 

And when in sins and sorrows sunk 
Revived my soul with grace. 

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 

Has made my cup run o'er, 
And in a kind and faithful friend 

Has doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ. 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 

That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 

Thy goodness I'll pursue. 
And after death in distant worlds 

The glorious theme renew. 

When nature fails, and day and night 

Divide Thy works no more. 
My ever-grateful heart, Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity to Thee 

A joyful song I'll raise : 
For oh ! eternity 's too short 

To utter all Thy praise. 

Joseph Addison. 



Psalm (S!>\\c i^nnbrcb nub Gcucntccn. 

From all that dwell below the skies 
Let the Creator's praise arise : 
Let the Redeemers name be sung 
Through every land, by every tongue. 

Eternal are Thy mercies. Lord — 
Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 
Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 

Isaac Watts. 



844 



P0E3IS OF RELIGION. 



(Tlic Creatar anb Creatures. 

God is a name my soul adores — 
The almighty Three, the eternal One ! 

Nature and grace, with all their powers, 
Confess the infinite Unknown. 

From Thy great self Thy being springs. 

Thou art Thy own original, 
Made up of uncreated things ; 

And self-sufficienee bears them all. 

Thy voice produced the seas and spheres. 
Bid the waves roar, and planets shine ; 

But nothing like Thyself appears 

Through all these spacious works of Thine. 

Still restless nature dies and grows, 

From change to change the creatures run ; 

Thy being no succession knows. 
And all Thy vast designs are one. 

A glance of Thine runs through the globes, 
Rules the bright worlds, and moves their frame : 

Broad sheets of light compose Thy robes ; 
Thy guards are formed of living flame. 

Thrones and dominions round Thee fall, 
And worship in submissive forms ; 

Thy presence shakes this lower ball. 
This little dwelling-place of worms. 

How shall affrighted mortals dare 
To sing Thy glory or Thy grace — 

Beneath Thy feet we lie so far. 
And see but shadows of Thy face ! 

Who can behold the blazing light? 

Who can approach consuming flame ? 
None but Thy wisdom knows Thy might — 

None but Thy word can speak Thy name. 

Isaac Watts. 



Cigllt Sl)ining ont of Durkncss. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants His footsteps in the sea. 

And rides upon the storm. 



Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up His bright designs. 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
But trust Him for His grace : 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour : 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 

And scan His work in vain : 
God is His own interpreter, 

And He will make it plain. 

William Cowper. 



Scarcli after (5ob. 

I SOUGHT Thee round about, Thou my God ! 

In thine abode. 
I said unto the earth : " Speak ! art thou he?" 

She answered me : 
" I am not." I enquired of creatures all, 

In general. 
Contained therein — they with one voice pro- 
claim 
That none amongst them challenged such a 
name. 

T asked the seas and all the deeps below, 

My God to know : 
I asked the reptiles, and whatever is 

In the abyss — 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Enquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can sound, 
The God I sought for was not to l)e found. 



SEARCH AFTER GOD. 845 

1 


I asked the air, if that were he ; but lo, 


I asked myself, what this great God might be 


It told me no. 


That fashioned me : 


I from the towering eagle to the wren 


I answered: The all-potent, solely immense, 


Demanded then 


Surpassing sense — 


If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such ; 


Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, 


But they all, much 


Lord over all ; 


Offended with my question, in full choir 


The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 


Answered : " To find thy God thou must look 


Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 


higher." 






He is the well of life, for He doth give 


I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars — but they 


To all that live 


Said : '' We obey 


Both breath and being. He is the creator 


The God thou seekest." I asked, what eye or ear 


Both of the water. 


Could see or hear — 


Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist 


What in the world I might descry or know, 


He hath the list — 


Above, below ; 


Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 


With an unanimous voice, all these things said : 


He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their names. 


" We are not God, but we by Him were made." 






And now, my God. by Thine illumining grace, 


I asked the world's gi'eat universal mass, 


Thy glorious face 


If that God was ; 


(So far forth as it may discovered l^e) 


Which with a mighty and strong voice replied, 


Methinks 1 see ; 


As stupefied : 


And though invisible and infinite, 


" I am not He. man I for know that I 


To human sight 


By Him on high 


Thou, in Thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest — 


Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 


In which to our weak sense Thou comest nearest. 


And swayed by Him, by whom I was created." 






Oh make us apt to seek, and quick to find. 


I sought the court : but smooth-tongued flatten- 


Thou God. most kind ! 


there 


Give us love, hope, and faith in Thee to trust, 


Deceived each ear ; 


Thou God, most just ! 


In the thronged city there was selling, buying. 


Remit all our offences, we entreat — 


Swearing and lying : 


Most good, most great I 


r the countr}'. craft in simpleness arrayed — 


Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest 


And then I said : 


May. through Thy grace, admit us 'mongst the 


"Vain is my search, although my pains be 


blest. Thomas Hetwood. 


great — 




Where my God is, there can be no deceit." 




A scrutiny within myself I. then, 


Xcarcr, mri ^J^o^, to ^Thcc. 


Even thus, l^egan : 




" man, what art thou ? " — What more could I say 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


Than dust and clay — 


Nearer to Thee I 


Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, 


E'en though it V>e a cross 


That cannot last — 


That raiseth me : 


Enthroned to-day. to-morrow in an urn. 


Still all my song shall be. 


Formed from that earth to which • 'iiust re- 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


turn ? 


Nearer to Thee I 



846 



POEMS OF RELIGION, 





Though like a wanderer, ■ 


Return, holy Dove, return ! 


The sun gone down, 


Sweet messenger of rest : 


Darkness comes over me, 


I hate the sins that made Thee mourn. 


My rest a stone ; 


And drove Thee from my breast. 


Yet in my dreams I'd be 




Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


The dearest idol I have known. 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Whate'er that idol be. 




Help me to tear it from Thy throne, 


There let the way appear 


And worship only Thee, 


Steps unto heaven ; 




William Cowper. 


All that thou sendest me 




In mercy given ; 




Angels to beckon me 




Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


0n ^notl)er's Sorroto. 


Nearer to Thee I 






Can I see another's woe, 


Then with my waking thoughts, 


And not be in sorrow too ? 


Bright with thy praise, 


Can I see another's grief. 


Out of my stony griefs 


And not seek for kind relief ^ 


Bethel I'll raise; 




So by my woes to be, 


Can I see a falling tear. 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 


And not see my sorrow's share ? 


Nearer to Thee 1 


Can a father see his child 


' 


Weep, nor be with sorrow filled ? 


Or if, on joyful wing, 


Sr' 


Cleaving the sky, 


Can a mother sit and hear 


Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
Upward I fly — 


An infant groan, an infant fear? 
No ! no ! never can it be — 


Still all my song shall be. 


Never, never can it be ! 


Nearer, my God, to Thee — 




Nearer to Thee ! 


And can He who smiles on all, 


Sarah Flower Adams. 






Hear the wren with sorrows small, 


, 


Hear the small bird's grief and care, 


£ 


Hear the woes that infants bear, — 


ttlalking XDitl) (5ob. 




Oh for a closer walk with God, 


And not sit beside the nest, 


A calm and heavenly frame, 
A light to shine upon the road 


Pouring pity in their breast ? 


And not sit the cradle near. 


That leads me to the Lamb ! 


Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 


Where is the blessedness I knew 


And not sit both night and day, 


When first I saw the Lord % 


Wiping all our tears away ? 


Where is the soul-refreshing view 


Oh, no ! never can it be — 


Of Jesus and His word ? 


Never, never can it be ! 


"^Tiat peaceful hours I once enjoyed — 


He doth give His joy to all ; 


How sweet their memory still ! 


He becomes an infant small, 


But they have left an aching void 


He becomes a man of woe. 


The world can never fill. 


He doth feel the sorrow too. 



THE RESIGXATIOy. 847 


Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 


teach me, in the trying hour. 


And thy Maker is not nigh ; 


When anguish swells the dewy tear, 


Think not thou canst weep a tear, 


To still my sorrows, own Thy power, 


And thy Maker is not near. 


Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. 


Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 
That our griefs He may destroy. 
Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

WnxiAM Blake. 


If in this bosom aught but Thee, 

Encroaching, sought a boundless sway, 

Omniscience could the danger see. 
And mercy look the cause away. 




Then why, ray soul, dost thou complain — 


(Bob is £0t)e. 


Why drooping seek the dark recess % 
Shake off the melancholy chain ; 


All I feel, and hear, and see, 


For God created all to bless. 


God of love, is full of Thee. 




Earth, with her ten thousand flowers, 
Air, with all its beams and showers, 
Ocean's infinite expanse. 
Heaven's resplendent countenance — 


But ah I my breast is human still ; 

The rising sigh, the falling tear, 
My languid vitals' feeble rill, 

The sickness of my soul declare. 


All around, and all above, 
Hath this record : God is love. 


But yet, with fortitude resigned, 

I'll thank the inflictor of the blow — 


Sounds among the vales and hills, 
In the woods, and by the rills. 


Forbid the sigh, compose my mind. 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 


Of the breeze, and oi the bird. 
By the gentle murmur stirred — 
All these songs, beneath, above, 


The gloomy mantle of the night, 
\Miich on my sinking spirit steals, 


Have one burden : God is love. 


Will vanish at the morning light, 
T\liicli God, my east, my sun, reveals. 


All the hopes and fears that start 
From the fountain of the heart, 


Thomas Chatterton. 


All the quiet bliss that lies, 




All our human sympathies — 




These are voices from above. 


Cliotns. 


Sweetly whispering : God is love. 


AXONYMOUe. 


King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 




Thus we move, our sad steps timing 


(JIk designation. 


To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, 
Where Thy house its rest accords. 


GoD ! whose thunder shakes the sky. 
Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, 

To Thee, my only rock. I fly, — 
Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 


Chased and wounded birds are we. 
Through the dark air fled to Thee — 
To the shadow of Thy wings. 
Lord of lords ! and King of kings 1 


The mystic mazes of Thy will, 


Behold, Lord ! the heathen tread 


The shadows of celestial night, 


The branches of Thy fruitful vine, 


Are past the power of human skill ; 
But what the Eternal acts is right 


That its luxurious tendrils spread 
O'er all the hills of Palestine. 



848 



P0E3IS OF RELIGION. 



And now the wild boar comes to waste 
Even us — the greenest bonghs and last, 
That, drinking of Thy choicest dew, 
On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 

No ! by the marvels of Thine hand, 
Thou wilt save Thy chosen land ! 
By all Thine ancient mercies shown, 
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown ; 
By the Egyptian's car-borne host. 
Scattered on the Red Sea coast — 
By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
Underneath the drowning water. 

Like us, in utter helplessness. 
In their last and worst distress — 
On the sand and sea- weed lying — 
Israel poured her doleful sighing : 
While before the deep sea flowed, 
And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
To their fathers' God they prayed, 
To the Lord of hosts for aid. 

On the margin of the flood 

With lifted rod the prophet stood ; 

And the summoned east wind blew, 

And aside it sternly threw 

The gathered waves that took their stand 

Like crystal rocks, on either hand, 

Or walls of sea-green marble piled 

Round some irregular city wild. 

Then the light of morning lay 
On the wonder-paved way. 
Where the treasures of the deep 
In their caves of coral sleep. 
The profound abysses, where 
Was never sound from upper air. 
Rang with Israel's chanted words : 
King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 

Then with bow and banner glancing, 

On exulting Egypt came ; 
With her chosen horsemen prancing, 

And her cars on wheels of flame, 
In a rich and boastful ring. 
All around her furious king. 

But the Lord from out His cloud. 

The Lord looked down upon the proud ; 



And the host draA'e heavily 
Down the deep bosom of the sea. 

With a quick and sudden swell 

Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 

Over horse, and over car, 

Over every man of war. 

Over Pharaoh's crown of gold, 

The loud thundering billows rolled. 

As the level waters spread, 

Down they sank — they sank like lead — 

Down sank without a cry or groan. 

And the morning sun, that shone 

On myriads of bright-armed men, 

Its meridian radiance then 

Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore. 

Against a silent, solitary shore. 

Henry Hart Milman, 



®l)e EnitJcrsal Prager. 

DEO OPT. MAX. 

Father of all ! in every age, 

In eveiy clime adored — 
By saint, by savage, and by sage — 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou great first cause, least understood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this : that Thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away. 
For God is paid when man receivis : 

To enjoy is to obey. 



niVlX£ EJACULATION. 



84$) 



56 



Yet not to earth's contracted span 

Thy goodness let me bound, 
Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 

When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 

Presume Thy bolts to throw, 
And deal damnation round the land 

On each I judge Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am w^rong, oh teach my heart 

To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault 1 see — 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quickened by Thy breath ; 

Oh lead me Avheresoe'er I go. 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot — 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 

Whose altar earth, sea, skies. 
One chorus let all being raise ! 

All nature's incense rise ! 

Alexander Pope. 



Ditnnc (gjaculation. 

Great God! whose sceptre rules the earth, 

Distil Thy fear into my heart. 
That, being rapt with holy mirth, 

I may proclaim how good Thou art; 
Open my lips, that I may sing 
Full praises to my God, my king. 



Great God ! Thy garden is defaced, 

The weeds thrive there. Thy flowers decay 

Oh call to mind Thy promise past — 
Restore Thou them, cut these away ; 

Till then let not the weeds have power 

To starve or stint the poorest flower. 

In all extremes, Lord, Thou art still 
The mount whereto my hopes do flee : 

Oh make my soul detest all ill, 

Because so much abhorred by Thee ; 

Lord, let Thy gracious trials show 

That I am just — or make me so. 

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree. 
Yield to that heavenly voice of Thine, 

And shall that voice not startle me. 
Nor stir this stone, this heart of mine ? 

No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear. 

Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear. 

Fountain of light and living breath, 
Whose mercies never fail nor fade. 

Fill me with life that hath no death. 
Fill me with light that hath no shade ; 

Appoint the remnant of my days 

To see Thy power and sing Thy praise. 

Lord God of gods ! before whose throne 
Stand storms and fire, oh what shall we 

Return to heaven, that is our own. 
When all the world belongs to Thee f 

We have no offerings to impart, 

But praises and a wounded lieart. 

Thou that sitt'st in heaven and see'st 
My deeds without, my thoughts within, 

Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest — 

Command my soul, and cure my sin ; 
How bitter my afllictions be 

1 care not, so I rise to Thee. 

What I possess, or what I crave. 

Brings no content, great (rod. to me. 
If what I would, or what I have. 

Be not possessed and blest in Thee : 
What I enjoy, oh make it mine. 
In making me, that have it. Thine. 



850 



POEMS OF RELIGION. 



When winter fortunes cloud the brows 
Of summer friends — when eves g-row stransre- 

When plighted faith forgets its vows, 

When earth and all things in it change — 

Lord, Thy mercies fail me never ; 

Wliere once Thou lov'st, Thou lov'st for ever. 

Great God ! whose kingdom hath no end, 

Into whose secrets none can dive, 
Whose mercy none can apprehend, 

WTiose justice none can feel and live, 
What my dull heart cannot aspire 
To know, Lord, teach me to admire. 

John Quarles. 



iEl}oti, ^ob, Sccst ille. ' 

God, unseen but not unknown, 
Thine eye is ever fixed on me ; 

1 dwell beneath Thy secret throne. 
Encompassed by Thy deity. 

Throughout this universe of space 

To nothing am I long allied ; 
For flight of time, and change of place. 

My strongest, dearest bonds divide. 

Parents 1 had, but where are they ? 

Friends whom I knew I know no more ; 
Companions, once that cheered my way, 

Have dropped behind or gone before. 

Now I am one amidst a crowd 

Of life and action hurrying round : 

Now left alone — for, like a cloud, 

They came, they went, and are not found. 

Even from myself sometimes I part — 
Unconscious sleep is nightly death — 

Yet surely by my couch Thou art, 
To prompt my pulse, inspire my breath. 

Of all that I have done and said 

How little can I now recall I 
Forgotten things to me are dead ; 

With Thee they live. Thou know'st them 
all. 



Thou hast been with me from the womb, 

Witness to every conflict here ; 
Nor wilt Thou leave me at the tomb — 

Before Thy bar I must appear. 

The moment comes, the only one 

Of all my time to be foretold : 
Yet when, and how, and where, can none 

Among the race of man unfold : 

The moinent comes when strength shall fail. 

When, health, and hope, and courage flown, 
I must go down into the vale 

And shade of death with Thee alone. 

Alone with Thee ! — in that dread strife 
L^phold me through mine agony ; 

And gently be this dying life 
Exchanged for immortality. 

Then, when the unbodied spirit lands 
Where flesh and blood have never trod. 

And in the unveiled presence stands, 
Of Thee, my Saviour and my God, 

Be mine eternal portion this. 

Since Thou wert always here with me : 
That I may view Thy face in bliss. 

And be for evermore with Thee. 

James Moxtgomekt. 



Deligl)! in (5ob onlt}. 

I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the earth — 
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good. 

She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food : 

But what 's a creature. Lord, compared with Thee ? 

Or what 's my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me : 

Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their 
flesh. 
And with their polyphonian notes delight me : 

But what 's the air, or all the sweets that she 

Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee ? 



TIME PAST, TUIE PASSING, TIME TO COME. 



851 



1 love the sea — she is my fellow-creature, 
My careful purveyor ; she provides me store ; 

She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; 
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, 

What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I dii'ect my journey, 

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye — 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 

Transcends the crystal pavemei3> of the sky : 
But what is heaven, great God, compared to 

Thee ? 
Without Thy presence, heaven 's no heaven to 
mCc 

Without Thy presence, earth gives no refection ; 
Without Thy presence, sea affords no treas- 
ure ; 
Without Thy presence, air 's a rank infection ; 
Without Thy presence, heaven "s itself no pleas- 
ure: 
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, 
What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ? 

The highest honors that the world can boast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 

Tlie brightest beams of glory are, at most, 
But dying sparkles of Thy living fire ; 

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be 

But nightly glow-worms if compared to Thee. 

Without Thy presence, wealth is bags of cares ; 

Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet, sadness; 
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares. 

Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing mad- 
ness ; 
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, 
Nor have their being, when compared with Thee. 

In having all things, and not Thee, what have I ? 

Not having Thee, what have my labors got ? 
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I ? 

And having Thee alone, what have I not ? 
I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of Thee ! 

Francis Qcarles, 



®ime past, ®imc passing, (Time to 
Come. 

Lord, Thou hast been Thy people's rest, 
Through all their generations — 

Their refuge when by troubles pressed. 
Their hope in tribulations : 

Thou, ere the mountains sprang to Ijirth, 

Or ever Thou hadst formed the earth, 
Art God from everlasting. 

Our life is like the transient breath. 
That tells a mournful story — 

Early or late stopped short by death — 
And where is all our glory ? 

Our days are threescore years and ten. 

And if the span be lengthened then. 
Their strength is toil and sorrow. 

Lo ! Thou hast set before Thine eyes 
All our misdeeds and errore ; 

Our secret sins from darkness rise 
At Thine awakening terrors : 

Who shall abide the trying hour ? 

Who knows the thunder of Thy power ? 
We flee unto Thy mercy. 

Lord, teach us so to mark our days 
That we may prize them duly ; 

So guide our feet in wisdom's ways 
That we may love Thee truly : 

Return, Lord ! our griefs behold, 

And with Thy goodness, as of old, 
Oh satisfy us early ! 

James Montgomery. 



®llou (J5o5 Unscardiablc. 

Thou God unsearchable, unknown. 
Who still conceal'st Thyself fi-om me. 

Hear an apostate spirit groan — 
Broke off and banished far from Thee ! 

But conscious of my fall I mourn, 

And fain I would to Thee return. 

Send forth one ray of heavenly light, 
Of gospel hope, of humble fear. 

To guide me througli the gulf of night — 
My poor desponding soul to cheer, 



853 



POEMS OF RELIGION, 



Till Thou, my unbelief remove, 
And show me all Thy glorious love. 

A hidden God indeed Thou art — 
Thy absence I this moment feel ; 

Yet must I own it from my heart — 
Concealed, Thou art a Saviour still ; 

And though Thy face I cannot see, 

I know Thine eye is fixed on me. 

My Saviour Thou, not yet revealed ; 

Yet will 1 Thee my Saviour call, 
Adore Thy hand — from sin withheld — 

Thy hand shall save me from my fall : 
Now, Lord, throughout my darkness shine, 
And show Thyself for ever mine. 

Charles Weslet. 



(©o5. 

THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide — 

Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ! 
Thou only God — there is no God beside ! 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One, 

Whom none can comprehend and none explore ! 

Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, and know no more ! 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but, God ! for Thee 

There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 
Up to Thy mysteries ; Reason's brightest spark. 

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 
high, 

Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 
First chaos, then existence — Lord! in Thee 

Eternity had its foundation ; all 
Sprung forth from Thee — of light, joy, har- 
mony, 



Sole Origin — all life, all beauty Thine ; 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! 
Great ! 

Light-giving, life-sustaining potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround — 

L^pheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. 

And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze. 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 
Thee; 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss — 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light — 

A glorious company of golden streams — 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

m 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 

All this magnificence in Thee is lost : — 

WTiat are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 
And what am I then ? — Heaven's unnumbered 
host. 

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I then ? Naught ! 

Naught ! But the effluence of Thy light divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; 

Yes ! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine. 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 

Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
Eager towards Thy presence — for in Thee 

I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high, 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity, 
I am, God ! and surelv Thou nuist be ! 



GOD. 



853 



Thou art ! — directing, guiding all — Thou art ! 

Direct my understanding then to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 

Though but an atom midst immensity, 
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand ! 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth — 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me — 

In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch and a slave — a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

For from itself alone it could not be ! 



Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of lite and good ! 

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude 

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death ; and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its source, to Thee, its author there. 

Oh thoughts ineffable ! oh visions blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to Thy deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar. 

Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good ! 
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

Gabriel Komanowitch Derzhavin. (Russian.) 
Translation of John Bowbing. 



INDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 



PAGE 

A baby was sleeping Lover. 116 

A barkin<j: sonnd the shepherd hears Wordsuwth. 81 

Aboil Beii Adliem imay his tribe increase ! ) Hunt. 642 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint Kiitr/. 547 

A cliicttain. to the Hiirhiands bound Campbell. 518 

Across the narrow beach we tlit Tliaxter. 71 

A cypress-bough and a rose-wreath sweet Beddoes. 552 

Ae ifond kiss, and then we sever Burns. 265 

Afar in the desert I love to ride Prin(/le. 59 

A \'vz for St. Denis of France Marjinn. 472 

Again I sit within tlie mansion B. Taylor. 554 

A good sword and a trusty hand Hawker. 383 

A good that never satisfies the mind Drununond. 707 

A <rrace thouuli melancholy, manly too H. Taylor. 544 

Ah. little ranting Johnny " Hunt. 118 

Ah 1 love, impute it not'to me a sin Blunt. 247 

Ah. lovely appearance of death Wedey. 828 

Ah me I full sorely is my heart forlorn S7ieu.\'fon£. IHS 

Ah me ! this is a sad and silent city Bethune. 777 

Ah I my heart is weary waiting MacCartky. 8 

Ah. my Perilia ! dost thou grieve to see Henick. 732 

A host of ani^els Hying Sinits. 14'J 

Ah. sweet Kitty Neal, rise up from your. .../. F. Waller. 271 

Ah. sweet, thou little knowest how Hood. 277 

Ah. then, how sweetly closed those crowded days, .ill-tfon. 141 
Ah. yes — the tiahtl Well, messmates, \\<S\\ . Anonynious. 405 

A lake and a fairy boat Hood. o\V,\ 

Alas, that moon should ever beam Hood. .506 

All in the Downs the lleet was moored (.ray. 215 

AH .) line 1 bound the rose in sheaves /?. Brownina. 2()4 

All the world over. I wonder, in lands that I never. Lyall. 780 

All thouirhts. all passions, all delights i'oler'idqc. 224 

All through the golden weatlu'r. . .". Rod<l. 203 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers. . .Beaumont <{• Fl. 51 

A low and aloof Head. 104 

Altiiouirh I enter not Thackeray. 275 

Ama/intr. beauteous change Doid ridge. K36 

Amid the ehapePs checkered gloom Anonymous. 315 

A mist was driviii>r down the British Q\vM\x\Q\.Lonafe'loH\ 5.57 

AmoiiiT the beautiful pictures "' Cart/. 151 

Amoii<j: the myrtles as I walkt Herrick. 2.52 

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Anonymous. 42'i 

And are ye sure the news" is true Adam.. 265 

And doth not a meetini: like this make amends. T. Moore. 174 

And hast thou sou'^dit tiiy heavenly home * Moir. 1.56 

And is this — Yarrow ': — This tlie stream . . Wn^'dnirorth. 75 
Ami 111" first >.'ray of morninir tilled the east. JA Amohl. 4'"8 
And th):i hast walked about (how strange. ... //. S'oith. Vy-[) 

An 1 whcr ■ havi- you been, inv .Mary )/. Houitt. .58-3 

An empty sky. a world of heather ItK/elou-. 2!'8 

Announced by all tiu- trumpets of the sky Eun-rson. 107 

An old soiu: made liy an aired old pate. ." Intun/mou.'i. 4-31 

A i)oor wayfaring man of grief ,/. Mont/joinery. 804 



PAGE 

Arethnsa arose Shdley. 24 

Around the tomb. O bard divine Antipater. 67s 

Around this lovely valley rise T/virbrldge. 43 

Arrayed, a half angelic sight C. Lamb. 114 

A safe stronLChold our Gocl is still Luther. 841 

As a twig trembles, which a bird Loxcell. 1.50 

As by the shore at break of day Moore. 38:3 

A sensitive plant in a garden grew Shelley. 87 

As ships, becalmed at eve. that lay Clough. 165) 

As I gaed down by yon house-en'' Anonyjnous. 4JXi 

A sight ill camp in the daybreak gray and dim. Whitman. 3i»7 

A simple child Wordsirorth. 145 

As it fell upon a day Barnfielil. 38 

As I was walking by my lane Anonymous. 575 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea. Tennyson. WO 

As o"er his furrowed fields, which lie Whiff ui'. 757 

As slow our shij) her foamy track T. Mofu-t . 179 

A steed '. a steed of matchlesse speed Mofhern>d. 3(3<3 

As through the land at eve we went Tennyson. IW 

A street fhire is in Paris famous Thackeray. 176 

A sweet disorder in the dress Herrick. 674 

A tho:;s;r.id miles from land are we B. Cornindf. 67 

At mitlniirlit. in his suarded tent Ha'hck. 412 

At Paris it was. at the opera there Lyfton. 327 

At the dos.'of the day. when the hamlet is still . Z^ea/^jV". 7«'3 

At the irate of old Granada, when all its Anonymous. 50U 

Antumirs sisrhinir Read. !I3 

Avenge. O Lord, thy slausrhtered saints Miffon. 7J2 

Awake, thou wintry eartii Blackfjurn. 801 

Away : let nanirht to love displeasing Anonymous. 33:3 

A weary lot is thine, fair maitl Scoff. 30:j 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro Fenntr. GU 

A wee i)ird came to our ha' door Ghn. 3S(> 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea Cunningham. 67 

Ay, this is freedom— these pure skies Bryant. 85 

Balder, the white sun-god, has departed Anonymous. 6;?8 

Balow. my babe, ly stil and sleipe Anonymous. 141) 

Bards of passion ;ind of mirth Keats. m\ 

Beautiful F.velyn Ho|)e is dead R. Browning. 325 

Beautiful \ Sir. you may say so B. Harit. W 

Beauty clear ,ind fair. . .' Beaumont and Flefrhtr. 251 

Before I sigJi my last gasp, let me breathe Donnt. 775 

Before the lieginning of years Swinfjurnt. 631* 

Before tile starry threshold of Jove's court Wttfon. o'.HJ 

Behold her. single in the field Wordsworth. 676 

BelioM the young, the rosy Spring Inarrt-on. 6 

B"iiol(| this riin : 'Twas a skull Anonymous. 776 

B"u Baffle was a soldier bold Hood. At'Ct 

Ben Boi)stay. a tar of the .jolly old sort Anonymous. 470 

Beiie.'ifh tliis stony roof reclined W<irfori. 4s 

Be |)atienf. oil. be patient ! Anonytnous. 74,s 

Beside a massive gateway Ituilt up in years Bryant. 7^54 



8.56 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 



Between the dark and the daylight Longfellow. 144 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping Bonar. 

Bird of the wilderness Hogg. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he Sapjjho. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Shakesjxare. 

Bobolink that in the meadow Hill. 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen Hogg. 

Brave singer of the coming time Holmes. 

Break, break, break. Tennyson. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning Heher. 

Bring me wine, but wine which never grew Emerson. 

Brother, thou art gone before us Milman. 

Burlj-. dozing humble-bee Emerson. 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. . .Hamilton. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly Oldys. 

By myself walking C. Lamb. 

By the flow of the inland river Finch. 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood Emerson. 



Cables entangling her Hood. 

Can I see another's woe Blake. 

Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms Milton. 

C-A the yowes to the knowes Bvrns. 

Cheeks as soft as Julj' peaches Bennett. 

Children are what mothers are Landor. 

Christmas is here Thackeray. 

Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring Anonymous. 

Close his eyes ; his wox'k is done Boker. 

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled aboxe. Bronte. 

Come away, come away, death Shakespeare. 

Come back, come back together Landon. 

Come, dear children, let us away J/. Arnold. 

Come down, ye graybeard mariners Hutchinson. 

Come, follow, follow me Anonymous. 

Come from my first, ay, come ! Praed. 

Come, golden evening, in the west .7. Montgomery. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning Davis. 

Come into the garden, Maud Tennyson. 

Come listen to me, j'ou gallants so free Anonymous. 

Come live with me, and'be my love Mo.rloxi'e. 

Come, lovely and soothing Death IT. Whitinan. 

Come, my way, my truth, my life Herbert. 

Come, O Thou traveller unknown . . Wesley. 

Come, said Jesus' sacred voice Bai'bauld. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged Ferguson. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points. . T.Moore. 
Come sleep, O sleep ! the certain knot of peace .Sidney. 

Come then, tell me, sage divine Akenside. 

Come to these scenes of peace Bowles. 

Come unto these yellow sands Shakespeare. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet. Tenny.son. 

Contemplate all this work of time Tennyson. 

Corporal Green ! the orderly cried Shepherd. 

Could I command, with voice or pen. ..../. Montgomery. 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas Craik. 

Courage, he said, and pointed toward the land. Tenny.-^oti. 

Crabbed age and youth Shakespeafe. 

Creator spirit, by whose aid St. Ambrose. 

Creej) into thy narrow bed M. Arnold. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who thro' a cloud. . .Milton. 
Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, the' cieax. Milton. 

Dark as the clouds of even Boker. 

Dark fell the night, the watch was set Sterling. 

Darkness is thinning; shadowsare retreating. .9^ Gregory. 

Darlings of the forest ! R. T. Cooke. 

Daughter to that good Earl, once President Milton . 

Day,' in melting purple dying Brooks. 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn //. Smith. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea Mrs. Broivning. 

Dear child, whom sleep can hardly tame Sterling. 

Dear Chloe, ^\ hile the busy crowd Cotton. 

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way. Lon-ell. 

Dearest, do not delay me Beavmont and Fletcher. 

Dear Fanny, nine long years ago Hood. 

Dear friend and fellow-student Mrs. Browning. 

Dear friend, far off. my lost desire 7\nnyson . 

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold Blake. 

Dear sister, while the wise and sage Whittier. 



831 

12 
261 
105 

15 
579 
181 
566 
797 
719 
827 

55 
489 

55 
463 
398 
388 

467 
846 
372 
264 
113 
120 
182 
644 
558 
310 
257 
127 
320 
648 
577 
693 

98 
272 
273 
204 
258 
786 
804 
803 
807 
645 
175 
244 
419 

44 
595 
303 
744 
394 
823 
329 
631 
284 
838 
419 
372 
373 

396 
356 
789 

31 
742 
282 

37 
563 
122 
341 

251 
126 
226 
167 
133 
677 



PAGE 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove Perdval. 71 

Der noble Ritter Hugo Lelancl. 483 

Die down. O dismal day ! and let me live. .David Gray. 108 

Dip down upon the northern shore Tennyson. 4 

Dost thou look back on what hath been Tennyson. 166 

Down in the wide, gray river B. T. Cooke. 565 

Down lay in a nook my lady's brach H. Taylor. 726 

Down the dimpled greensward dancing Darley. 132 

Drink to me only with thine eyes Philostratus. 249 

Drop, drop, slow tears P. Fletcher. 812 

Each sorrowful mourner, be silent Prudentiiis. 830 

Earth has not anything to show more fair. . W07'dsu'07'th. 9 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother Sterling. 82 

Earth, with her ten thousand flowers Anonymovs. 847 

Eight bells ! eight bells ! their clear tone tells. . .Butler. 762 

Eternal source of every joy Doddridge . 792 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind Byron. 512 

Ever let the fancy roam Keats. 103 

Every wedding, says the proverb Parsons. 282 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Moo7'e. 673 

Fair daffodils ! we weep to see Herrick. 30 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree Herrick. 30 

Fairshon swore a feud Aytoini. 4.56 

Fair stood the wind for France Drayton. 363 

Farewell I but whenever you welcome the hour. T. Moore. 175 

Farewell rewards and fairies Coi^bett. 593 

Farewell ! thou art too dear Shakespeare. 243 

Farewell, thou busy world Cotton. 49 

Farewell to Lochaber ! and farewell, my Jean. .Ramsay. 376 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong Burns. 497 

Father, by thy love and power Anonymous. 793 

Father of'all. in every age Pope. 847 

Father, thy wonders Ho not singly stand Very. 792 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun Shakespeare. 550 

Fill the bumper fair ! T. Moore. 173 

First catch your clams — along the ebbing edges . Croffut. 462 

First time he kissed me, he but onlj' Mrs. Browidng. 246 

Five years have passed : five summers Wordsicorth. 78 

Flung to the heedless winds Ltither. 819 

Fly not yet — 'tis just the hour Moore. 285 

Fly to the desert, fly with me Moore. 269 

Fold thy little hand's in prayer Willmott. 148 

Friend of all who seek thy favor Wesley. 809 

From all that dwell below the skies Watts. 843 

From his brimstone bed at break of day Coleridge. 460 

From my lips in their defilement Damascenus. 802 

From Oberon, in fairy land Anonymous. 576 

From Stirling Castle we had seen Woixlsworth. 74 

From you have I been absent in the f^-p^'mg . Shakespeare . 243 
Full niany a glorious morning have I seen. .Shakespea^'e. 164 

Gamarra is a dainty steed B. Cormvall. 61 

Gane were but the winter cauld Cunningham. 548 

Gather ye rose-buds as ye may Herrick. 333 

Gonteelin personage Anonytnous. 284 

Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many Dibdin. 456 

Gin a body meet a body Anonymous. 288 

God is a name my soul adores Watts. 844 

God is the refuge of his saints Watts. 841 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Lowell. 290 

God moves in a mysterious way Ccncper. 844 

God i)rosper long bur noble king Anonymous. 359 

God save our gracious king Anonymous. 384 

God sends his teachers unto every age Lowell. 612 

God shield ye, heralds of the spring Ronsard. 3 

God, who the universe doth hold Darison. 840 

Goe, soul, the bodie's guest ' Raleigh. 703 

Go. lovely rose ! ."" Waller. 34 

Go now !' and with some daring drug Crashaw. 719 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! Allingham. 80 

Good bye. proud world ! I'm going home Emerson. 717 

Good-niorrow to thy sable beak Baillie. 21 

Good muse, rock me asleep Wordsicorth. 707 

Good ])eople all, of every sort Goldsmith. 432 

Good people all, with one accord Goldstnith. 455 

Go. sit by the summer sea Anonymovs. 286 

Go to dark Gethsemane /. Montgomery. 800 



IXDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 



857 



PAGE 

Go where glory waits thee Mfxn'e. 2(j9 

Great are the myths — I too delight in them. IT'. WhUman. 634 

Great God, whose sceptre rules the earth ./. Qitarhs. 849 

Green be the turf above thee Halleck. 559 

Green little vaulter in the suunj' grass Hunt. 54 

Guvener B. is a sensible man LoiceU. 484 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove I Lo(/nn. IG 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good.. . . Coxvley. 73^3 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Shtllty. 10 

Hail to the Lord's anointed ./. Montgomery. 799 

Half a lea2;ue, half a league Ttraujson. 402 

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit Mills. 561 

Hame. hame^ hame ! oh hame I fain Caninngham. 330 

Hamelin town "s in Brunswick B. Browning. 128 

Hans Breitmann gif e a barty Leland. 483 

Happy art thou, whom God does bless Cowley. 46 

Happy insect, can it be Anacreon. 53 

Happy insect, ever blest W. Uarte. 54 

Happy songster, perched above Anacreon. .54 

Happy the man whose wish and care Pojie. 732 

Hark'! ah, the Nightingale M. Arnold. 40 

Hark — hark I the lark at heaven's gate Shakespeare. 10 

Hark I some wild trumpeter IF. Whitman. 009 

Hark ! the faint bells of the sunken city Mueller. 718 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning. ..5. T. Coleridge. 110 

Hast thou seen that lordly castle Uhland. 563 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell .S. T. Coleridge. .595 

Hear the sledges with the bells Poe. G65 

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken Coivpcr. 835 

He came across the meadow-pass Anonymous. 237 

He filled the crystal goblet Haze will. 384 

'• Heigho," yawned one day King Francis. .S. Browning. 210 

He is gone on the mountain Scott. 548 

' Hence, all you vain delights Beaunwnt and Fletcher. 728 

Hence, loathed Melancholy Milton. 698 

Hence, vain deluding joys Milton. 700 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling Dibdin. 524 

Here, here, oh here, Eurydice Lovelace. 309 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere Roberts. 42 

Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear Burns. 265 

Here "s a health to them that "s awa Burns. 377 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer Tennyson. 822 

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare Wordsworth. 141 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee Herrick. 254 

Her suffering ended with the day ./. Aid rich. 541 

He sang so wildly, did the boy Burbidge. 124 

He that loves a rosy cheek Carew. 2.54 

He that of such a height hath built his mind Danie'. 704 

He who died at Azan^sends E. Arnold. 783 

Hey, now the day's dawning A. Montgomery. 9 

Hie upon Hielan'ds Anolt ymous. 496 

Home they brought her warrior dead Tenny.'<on. 1.59 

Ho I pretty page, with the dimpled chin Thackeray. 729 

Ho. sailor of the sea Dobell. 523 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord Addison. 842 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my. Wood worth. 6.52 

How delicious is the winning .' CampbeU. 282 

How do I love thee ? Let me count Mrs. Browning. 246 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Herbert. 806 

How happy is he born and taught Wotton. 7,56 

How like i\ winter hath my absence been . . .Shakespeare. 24:3 
How little fades froui earth when sink to rest. .Sterling. 679 

Hf)w little recks it wliere men lie Barry. 419 

How many paltry, foolish, painted things Drayton. 245 

How many summers, love Cornwall. 343 

How near" me came the hand of death Wither. 829 

How orient is thy beauty '. How divine F. Quarles. 806 

How seldom, friend, a good, great man. ..S'. T. Cmendge. 742 

How should I your true love know S.kakespedre. 2.57 

How sleep thebrave, who sink to rest Collins. 3S4 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth .. Milton . 742 

How spake of old the Koyal Seer Thackeray. 729 

How stands the glass around ? Anonymous. 174 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright Hunt. 769 

How sweetly doth my master sound Hrt/ert: 8i>5 

How the eaith burns ! Each pebl)le under foot. . Blunt. 58 

How vainly men themselves auuize Marrell. 45 

Hush : my dear, lie still and slumber /. Watts. 160 



PAGE 

am a friar of orders gray 0' Keeft. 729 

am monarch of all I survej' Cowper. 641 

arise from dreams of thee' 'Shelley. 262 

ask not that my bed of death M. Arnold. 774 

bade thee stay. Too well I know .S". H. Whitman. 293 

bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. . .Shelley. 63 

cannot eat but little meat .". StV.l. 428 

cannot make him dead Pitrjxnit. 1.57 

come from the haunts of coot and hern Tennyson. 26 

dreamed that, as I wandered by the way Shelley. 27 

envy not. in any moods Tennyson. 165 

' aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song Collins. 97 

feefa newer life in every gale Perciral. 7 

' I desire with pleasant songs BurfAdge. 287 

' I leave all for thee, wilt thou Mrs. Broicning. 246 

fill this cup to one made up Pinkney. 278 

r it be true that any beauteous thing . . .Michel Angelo. 245 

I love were what the rose is Swinburne. 251 

that the world and love were young Raleigh. 259 

the red slayer think he slays ' Emerson. 714 

this fair rose offend Congreve and Somerrille. 248 

thou must love me, let it be for Mrs. Browning. 246 

thou wert by my side, my love Heber. .340 

thou wilt ease thine heart Beddoe^s. 562 

to be absent were to be Lovelace. 255 

you become a nun. dear Hunt. 284 

give thee treasures hour by hour R. T. Cooke. 319 

have a son. a little son, a boy just five years. .Mo'dtrie. 151 

have got a new-boru sister. ! " M. Lamb. 114 

have had playmates. I ha\e had companions. C. Lamb. 170 

have ships that went to sea Coffin. 647 

heard a sick man's dying sigh Ptxied. 481 

hear no more the locust 1)eat Shepherd. 274 

in these flov.ery meads would be Walton. 14 

journey tlirough a desert drear and wild. .Anonymous. 803 

know not what it presatres Heine. 595 

know that all beneath the moon decays. . Drummond. 245 
like a church : I like a cowl Emerscm. 752 

II wreathe my sword in myrtle-bough Callistratus. 354 

love, and have some cause to love, the earth. i^. Quarles. 850 

loved him not : and yet. now he is gone Landor. 293 

loved thee long and dearly P. P. Cwke. 323 

love to look on a scene like this Willis. 132 

love to wander through the woodlands.. S. H. Whitman. 82 

mourn no more my vTinished years Whittier. 815 

m sittin' on the stile. Marv Di'ftrin. 5.35 

' ■ ■ 322 



827 

91 

374 

820 



must not say that thou wert true M. Arnold 

"m wearin' awa". John Sairne. 

n a coign of the cliff between lowland Swinburne. 

n a dream of the night I was wafted away Hyslop. 

n darker days and nights of storm ". Parker. 

never gave a lock of hair away Mrs. Browning. 246 

n goodlvins: Charles's golden days Anonymous. 479 

n Ireland ferr over the sea Anonymous. 195 

n Koln. a town of monks and bones Coleridge. 460 

n London was young Beichan born -inonymous. 200 

n martial sports I had my cunninir tried Sidney. 244 

n May. when sva-winds pierced our solitudes.. i?///^r«o«. 31 

n sluin))ers of midnight the sailor boy lay Dimond. 522 

n summer, wlun the days were long \nonymous. 274 

n the desert of the Holy Land I strayed . . .Anonymous. 811 

n the hour of my distress Hrnck. 

n their ragged regimentals McMatter. 

n the meiHe moneth of Maye Brttnu. 

n the old churchyard of his native town Lfmgfdlon-. 

n this world, the i^le of dreams Herrirk. 

nto the silent land Safi''. 

n Xanadu did Kubla Khan *'. T. Cofriidge. 

n yonder dim and pathless wood Uhland. 

plii-renia. when she heard her doom Landnr. 

remember, I remember Hoo<i. 

said to sorrow's awful storm L. Stoddard. 

sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden Munby. 2;J6 

saw him last on this terrace proud H. Smith. .5.57 

saw liim once before Holme.t. 

saw the twinkle of white feet Lowtll. 

saw two clouds at morning Brainard. 

say to thee, do thou repeat Trench. 

s it come y they said, on the banks of the 'Sile.Bixncn. 



825 
389 
247 
774 
743 
5:J9 
614 
749 
509 
144 
737 



7:i2 
674 
aS9 
831 
745 



SoS 



ISDEX OF FIRST LISES. 



PAGE 

I sought thee round about. O thou my God . . .Htyicood. SJ4 
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he. .jff. Broicnlng. 385 

Is there for honest poverty Burns. 744 

Is there, when the winds are singing Blanchard. 122 

Is this a fast — to keep the larder lean Hernck. 816 

It is an ancient mariner .S^. T. Coleridge. 615 

It is a place where poets crowned Jlrs. Broivmng. 685 

It is not that my lot is low H. K. White. 561 

It is the miller's daughter Tennyson. 277 

It is the poet Uhland. from whose wreathings. ..Butler. 692 

It little profits that, an idle king T. Tennyson. 631 

I too have suffered. Yet I kn6\v ^[. Arnold. 321 

It was a beauteous lady richly dressed Xorfon. 322 

It was a friar of orders gray . " Percy. 2<-it> 

It was a summer evening ." Southiry. 64^ 

It was many and many a year ago Poe. 325 

It was not in the winter .'. Hood. 278 

It was the calm and silent night Domett. 812 

It was the schooner Hesperus Longfelloic. oiO 

It was the season when thro' all the hind Longfellow. 21 

I've taught thee love's sweet lesson o'er Barley. 279 

I've wandered east. I've wandered west MothtriceU. 311 

I wandered by the brook-side Milnts. 277 

I wandered, lonely as a cloud Words uorth. 30 

I was thy neighbor once, thou nigged pile. Words icori.'i. 70 

I weigh not fortune's frown or smTle Sy!restfr. 702 

I went to her who loveth me no more. . . 0' ShaugUnessy. 2t»5 

I went to the garden of love Blake. 752 

I wish I were where Helen lies Anonymous. 497 

I would I were an excellent divine Breton. 816 

Jaffar. the Barmecide, the good vizier Hunt. 168 

Jenny kissed me when we met *. .Hunt. 293 

Jesus, lover of my soul Wesley. 8i>S 

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Watts. 8<>3 

John Anderson, my jo. John Burns. 344 

John Gilpin was a citizen Coicper. 452 

Just for a handful of silver he left us B. Browning. o55 

Ken ye anght of bnive Lochiel Anonymous. 526 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid. . .Anonymous. 35.S 
King Chjirles. and who'll do him right now . B. Brown in g. 369 

King of kings, and Lord of lords Jfilman. 847 

Kulnasatz, my reindeer Anonymous. 261 

Lars Porsena of Clusium Macaulay. 347 

Liist night. amon2 his fellow roughs Doyle. 415 

Late at "e'en, drinking the wine. .7 Anonymous. 48S 

Laud the first spring daisies Youl. 31 

Lessons sweet of Spring returning Keble. 5 

Let me move slowly through the street Bryant. 717 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds. . Shakes ittaj-e. 244 

Let observation, with extensive view Johnson. 721 

Let those who are in favor with their nax^ .Shake>t})eare. 164 

Life and Death are sisters fair Anonymous. 7>j6 

Life. I know not what thou art Barbnuld. 782 

Life of life : Thy lips enkindle ShtUey. 1(.>9 

Like a blind spinner in the sun Jackson. 741 

Like JItna's dread volcano, see the ample forge .DiMin. t>45 

Like as the damask rose you see Wastel. 773 

Like some vision olden Landon . 12o 

Like the violet, which alone Hahinqton . 2.53 

Like to the falling of a star King. 773 

Lily on liquid roses floating Kenyon. 173 

Listed into the cause of sin Wesl^.y. 818 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen Anonymous. 423 

Little inmate, f ulfof mirth Bourne. li>2 

Little streams are lieht and shadow M. Hoicitt. 25 

Little thinks, in the'field. yon red-cloaked Emerson. 749 

Lochiel. Lochiel I beware "of the day Campbell. 378 

Lo : here a little volume, but great "book Crashaw. 817 

Lo. my Shepherd's hand divine Merrick. 840 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing. .Landon. 279 

Look at me with thy larjre brown eyes Craik. 117 

Look out apon the "stars', my love . ' Pinkney. 277 

Lord, how long, how long wilt thou Dirison. S39 

Lor". Lo'el he stood at his castle gate Anonymous. 2<»4 

Lorrl. t'.iou hast been thy pe^le'srest..-/. Montgomery. 851 
Lor.i, v.liea t!iose .rlorious lii:ht« I see W'tthtr. 794 



PAGE 

Loud he sang the psalm of David Longfellow. 764 

Loud is the Summer's busy song Clare. 43 

Loud wind : strong wind ! "sweeping o'er the Craik. 106 

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling Dobson. 287 

Love is a sickness full of woes Daniel. 248 

Love is the blossom where there blows Fletcher. 253 

Love knoweth every form of air Willis. 287 

Love me if I live. . ." Cornwall. 27^ 

Love me little, love me long Anonymous. 250 

Love not. love not. ye hapless sons of clay Xorton. 332 

Love not me for comely grace Anonymous. ^8 

Love thy mother, little" one Hood. 119 

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl Sterling. 313 

Maid of Athens, ere we part Byron. 262 

Malbronck. the prince of commanders Anonymous. 430 

Many a year is in its grave L hland. 168 

March, march. Ettrick and Teviotdale Scott. 379 

Margarita first possessed Cowley. 283 

Martial, the things that do attain Surrey. 698 

Mary to her Saviour's tomb Xeicton. 801 

Maud Mulier. on a summers day Whittier. 314 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie. . .". Douglas. 267 

May. queen of blossoms Th urlow. 8 

May the Babylonish curse C. Lamb. 4&4 

3Ieilow the moonlight to shine is beginning../. F. Waller. 236 

Men have done brave deeds " Anonymous. 416 

Methinks it is good to be here Knowles. 778 

Milton, thou shonldst be living at this hour. Wordsworth. 417 

Mine be a cot beside the hill Sogers. 340 

Moon of hanest. herald mild H. K. White. 100 

Mortiil mixed of middle clay Emerson. 718 

Mournfully \ oh. mournfully Motherwell. 105 

Mourn. O "rejoicins heart . . .' Anonymous. 736 

iluch have I travelled in the realms of gold Keats. 692 

My boat is on the shore Byron. 175 

;My brier that smelledst sweet Landor. 33 

My coachman, in the moonlight there Lowell. 725 

My days among the dead are passed R. Sou they. 768 

My dear and only love. I pray Montrcse. 259 

My dt-ar Redeemer, and my God Watts. 607 

My ear-rinsrs ! my ear-rings ! Anonymous. '£& 

My God. Ilieard this day Htrbert. 757 

My God. I love thee : not because Xarier. ^ri 

My hair is gray, but not with years Byron. 512 

My heart aches, and a drowsynumbness pains. ..Keats. 39 

Mv heart 's in the Highlands ' Burns, do 

Mv heid is like to rend. Willie Motherwell. 312 

My life is like the summer rose P. H. Wilde. 738 

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend.. .Burns. 753 

My love has "talked with rocks and trees Tennyson. 339 

My love he built me a bonny bower Anonymous. 497 

My minde to me a kingdom is Byrd. 7C6 

My mother bore me in the southern wild Blake. 147 

My soul, there is a country yavghan. 836 

My soul to-day " Read. 73 

My spirit longeth for thee Byrom. 811 

IMysterious >right \ when our first parent. . ../. B. White. 101 
My wind has turned to bitter north Clough. 738 

Nearer, my God. to thee Adams. 845 

Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going. . . Canning. 461 

Never any more P. Browning. 301 

Nest to thee. O fair gazelle B. Taylor. 56 

Noblest Charis. vou that are Jonson. 249 

No cloud, no relict of the simken day. ..S. T. Coleridge. 40 

No god to mortals oftener descends Landor. 765 

No more these simple flowers belong Whittier. 091 

No seas atrain shall sever .^ Bonar. 837 

No stir in the air. no stir in the sea P. Southey. hiiy) 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Wo'fe. 556 

Not as all otht-r women are Loir til. 276 

Nothing under the sun is new Cook. 731 

Not in the swaying of the summer trees E. Arnold. 673 

Not marble, nor the siided monuments Shakespeare. 105 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul. Shake-fpeare. 244 

Not on a prayerless bed Mercer. 821 

Not ours the vows of such as plight Barton. 3S9 

Now :rl..ry to the Lord of hosts. Macaulay. SC7 



IXDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 



859 



_ I 



PAGE 

Now IS done thy long day's work Tenitysoii. 549 

Xo .V ponder well, you parents dear Anonymous. i:58 

Xir.v that Tom Dunstan "s cold BuchaiKin. 415 

Xow toe bright morning star, day's harbinger. . .MUton. 6 
Xow tlje lusty Spring is seen. . .Beaumont and Fhtcher. 7 

Xaw there "s peace on the shore Lockhart. 381 

Xow the third and fatal conflict for the Persian . Trench. t»37 



O. a dainty plant is the iN-y green Dickens. 93 

O Arranni'ore, loved Arraumore Moore. ?44 

O bej-iteous God. uncircumscribed treasure..-/. Taylor. 836 

O biitas new-comer. I have heard Wor'Uicorth. 16 

O. breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade. Jtfoore. 549 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair Scott. 239 

0?h hone I and what will I do Later. 289 

O com? away, make no delay Yauqfuin. 805 

O Death ! tlioa tyrant fell and bloody Burns. 545 

O. Jid you see him ridine down Perry. 2S1 

O lii; a" grave, and dig it'deep W. S. Ro*coe. 551 

O fiint. delicious, sprine-time violet Story. -34 

Of all the thought.* of God that are Mrs. Browning. 764 

O. fear not thou to die Arionyrnous. 825 

Of L?ntr?n in the first morning Dunbar. 629 

Of mortal irlory. O soon darkened ray Drummorul. 774 

Of X:*lson and the north Cautpbell. 403 

O fir a closer walk with God Cowpir. 846 

Oft as my lady sans for me Parsons. 67^ 

Oft I had heard of tncy Gray Wordsworth. 143 

Oft in the stillv night.*. " Moore. 761 

Oft I see at twilight S. H. Whitman. 565 

O gentle, gentle summer rain Bennett. 62 

O Gad. my strength and fortitude -^f' n.lfAd. 839 

O Goi. uns?en but not unknown .J. M y. 850 

O God. whose thunder shakes the sky ' m. 847 

O liappy sle-p ! that bear'st upon thy breast. . ..Martin. 103 

O happy Thames that didst my Stella bear Sidney. 244 

O. how much more doth beauty Shakesj>eare. 165 

O. it is great for our country to die . . .' Percirai. 354 

O. Kc-nmnre "s on and awa, "Willie Barns. 377 

O lady, leave thy silken thread Hoc»d. 675 

lady, thy lover is dead, they cried MacDonaid. 326 

01 J stories tell how Hercules" Anonymous. 427 

Ol 1 Time and I. the other night Lemon. 483 

Old wine to drink 1 Messinger. 171 

O leave the past to bury its own dead. Blunt. 247 

O Love divine, how sweet thou art Wesley. 823 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love j/';-.r, /,.,,„ .>70 

O Love, whose patient'pilgriin feet D y. 344 

O Mary, gaand call the cattle home ■ .. y. 4S8 

O. may I j jin the choir invisible Eliot. 780 

O melanch ily bird, a winter's daj- Thurlow. 107 

O mother dear. Jerusalem Anonymous. 832 

O mother of a mighty race Bryant. 391 

O. my love "s like the steadfast sun Cunningtiam. 343 

O. my lave 's like a red. red ro#e Burns. 266 

On a bleak ridge, from whose sranite edges. . .BurUigh. 677 

Oaee this soft tarf. this rivulet's sands . .' Bryant. 393 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered pije. 623 

On deck, bentath the awning Thackeray. 468 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand Sj>enser. 242 

On either side the river he Tennyson. 597 

One more unfortunate Hood. 536 

One silent ni^ht of late Anacreon. 286 

O never say that I was false of heart Shakespeare. 244 

O never talk again to me Byron. 263 

One word is too often profaned Shelley. 263 

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray MUton. 38 

On Linden, when the sun was low CampheU. 4i"» i 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell WtUis. 

On the s^a and at the Hogue JR. Birtwning. 4 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake Percira/. 74 

On Trinitye Mo:idaye in the mom Anonymous. 569 

O reader, hast thou ever stood to see j?. ^/they. 105 

Orplian Hours, the Year is dead SheUey. lO^ 

Orpheus, with his lute, made trees Shak^tji^are. 669 

O.Saint Patrick was a gentleman B-m/i^tt. 471 

O. saw ye Bonnie Leslie B'THji. 2- - 

O. saw ye not fair lues Hoofi. -- ~ 

O say, can you see. by the da^vn'e early light Kty. 3yi' 



PAGE 

O say not that my hean is cold Wfjife. 739 

O sing nnto my roundelay Chattertbn. 324 

O. snatched away in beauty's bloom Byron. 548 

O talk not to me of a name great in storj- Byron. 292 

O. that last day in Lucknow fort '. LoiceU. 414 

O that those lips had language! Life hais passed . Cowper. 653 

O that 'twere possible. .'. Tennyson. 3l>!i 

O the Broom, the yellow Broom M. Howiit. 32 

O. the French are on the sav Anonymous. 3S5 

O the gallant fisher's life . . .' ChalkhiU. 13 

O the pleasant days of old Brown. 743 

O those little, those little blue shoes Bennett. 1.50 

O thou eternal One. whose presence bright ..Derzttarin. S52 

O thou, that swLng'st upjon the waving ear Lorrlace. 53 

O thou, the wonder of all dayes Her rick. 550 

O tiiou whose fancies from afar Wordsworth. 121 

O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang Keats. 30 

O Tim. did you hear 'of thim Saxons Thackeray. 475 

Our band is few. but true and tried Bryant. 3s9 

Our bugles sang truce : for the night-cloud . . . CamjjtteU. &49 

Our life IS twofold : sleep hath its'own world Byron. 296 

Outstretched beneath the leafy shade Southey. 706 

Over hill, over dale Shakespeare. 578 

Over the mountains A '*. *>6 

Over the river they beckon to me '•/. 781 

O waly. waly. up the bank Aifi.<jfn'>'t:i. .311 

O. wert thou in the cauld blast Burns. 267 

O. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms Keats. 579 

O when 'tis summer weather Bowie*. 44 

O. where do fairies hide their heads P""hj. .584 

O wherefore come ye forth, m triumph from " j. :iG9 

O. where hae ye been. Lord Randal, my son . .1 . . 1.*. 492 

O. why should the spirit of mortal be proud .Knox. 776 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's, f^h'lfey. 05 

O. Willie "s gane to Melville Castle A v. 455 

O. will ve choose to hear the news i ly. 476 

O world : O life : O time \ -ih^^ey. 562 

O. yet we trust that somehow good Tennyson. 821 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west Scott. 238 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day '" d. 12 

Pansies. lilies, kingcups, daisies. . . ' W h. iW 

Peace to the slumberers JI<"re. 384 

Peace ! what can tears avail ? Corn wait. 541 

People, appear, approach, advance -1/ ' 'j*. 463 

Phftbus. arise 1/ I. 7 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu >. .,//. .379 

Pil)ed the blackbird on the beechwood spray. WesttcocHl. 147 

Piping down the valleys wild ' Blake. 1 13 

Praise to God. immortal praise Barbauld. 837 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire J. Montgomery. 830 

Prince Eugene, our noble leader Anonymou*. .306 

Proud Mafsie is in the wood Scott. 555 

PYune thou thv words : the thoughts control.._V<f>rwia/i. 728 

I*rythee. Willy, tell me this Wtther. 679 

Put the broidery-frame away Mrs. Browning. 317 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi* bluid inonymous. 494 

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares Wotton. 14 

Rarelv. rarelv comest thon SheUey. 710 

:• '■ _' -"■ " ' ' -'-- • "> " " :-^ 

slow ' "4 

i.>. ii> . - ■•■ . f^i2 

^ _ J. sing 1 1 - ath / -,. 594 

ii.,,.,,. ;.,!.. ..iV brancli. - _.^ - ii.- ?unshin«. . j.-. r.V. 51 

Rise, heart \ thy Lord is risen Herbert. 801 

V.-..- •>;"..■]> no more ! 'Tis a noble mom i'omwafi. 86 

up. now. Lord Douglas Anonymous. 491 

. - up. Xarifa Anonymous. ■HI 

Koben of Sicily, brother of Poi»e Vrltane... LonqfeUow. 769 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep II Ulard. 808 

Rock of ages, cleft for me Topladp. 807 

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king Gray. 354 

?*»d ie onr youth, for it is ever going De TWv. 7S7 

■^ '•--■ Eve — Ah. bitter chillli was Keafjt. 217 

:iy at church Anonymous. 4?i 

saviour, wnen in dust to thee^ Grant. (*» 



860 



INDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 



PAGE 

Say not, the struggle naught availeth Clough. 652 

Say over again, and yet once over again. J/r5. Broivrdng. 246 

Scots, wha hae wi" Wallace bled Burns. 369 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Keats. 86 

See. from this counterfeit of him Parsons. 418 

See how the orient dew Marvell. 6 

See how yon flaming herald treads Holmes. 642 

See the chariot at hand here of Love Jonson. 248 

September strews the woodland o'er Parsons. 80 

Set in this stormy northern sea 0. Wilde. 400 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?. .Shakespeare. 163 

Shall I tell you whom I love Broicne. 250 

Shall I, wasting in despair Wither. 285 

She bounded o'er the graves Gilinan. 146 

Shed no tear I oh shed no tear Keats. 578 

Slie dwelt among the untrodden ways Wordsworth. 148 

She is a maid of artless grace Yicente. 276 

She is a winsome wee thing Burns. 342 

She is far from the land where her young hero . . . Moore. 326 

She is not fair to outward view H. Coleridge. 250 

She is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature. .Lytton. 477 
Shepherds all, and maidens fair. . Beaumont and Fletcher. 96 

She stood breast-high amid the corn Hood. 275 

She walks in beauty like the night Byron. 676 

She was a phantom of delight Wordsxcorth. 676 

She wore a wreath of roses Bayly. 535 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot Burns. 182 

Shout for the mighty men Croly.'^bb 

Sigh on. sad heart, for love's eclipse Hood. 294 

Sitent nymph, with curious eye Dyer. 94 

Since you desire of me to know Norris. 702 

Sing again the song you sung Curtis. 674 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse More. 791 

Sing, sweetest thrushes, forth and sing ! Stoddart. 13 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing. .De Vere. 279 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight Colman. 728 

Sit down, sad soul, and count Cornivall. 769 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine Leyden. 640 

Sleep bieathes at last from out thee Hunt. 121 

Sleep, love, sleep ! Judson. 342 

Sleep on. baby on the floor Mrs. Broicning. 117 

Sleep ! The ghostly winds are blowing Cornivall. 537 

Slowly, with measured tread Mrs. Southey. 539 

So all'day long the noise of battle rolled Tennyson. 571 

So are yo\i to my thoughts as food to life . .Shakespeare. 242 

So fallen ! so lo'st ! the light withdrawn Whittier. 554 

Softly ! She is lying with'her lips apart Eastman. 552 

Softly woo away her breath Corn icall. 528 

So is'it not with me as with that Muse Shakespeare. 164 

Some say thy fault is youth Shakespeare. 243 

Sometimes a light surprises Coivper. 822 

Some years ago, ere time and taste Praed. 480 

So now is come our joyful'st feast Wither. 183 

So the foemen have flred the gate Kingsley. 38'! 

Sow in the morn thy seed J. Montgomery. 819 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden. Lonafellow. 36 

Sparkling and bright in liquid liirht Hqfrnan. 173 

Spirit that breathest throus^h mv lattice Bryant. 96 

Stand still, and I will read to thee Bonne. 247 

Star that bringest home the bee Campbell. 99 

Storn daut^hter of the voice of God Wordsivorth. 739 

Still on the tower stood the vane Tennyson. 241 

Still to be neat, still to be drest Jonson. 674 

Stop, mortal 1 Here thy brother lies Elliott. 560 

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water B. Taylor. 610 

Suck. baby, suck ! mother's love grows C. Lamb. 118 

Sweet, after showers, ambrosial air Tenmjson. 97 

Sweet and low. sweet and low Tennyson. 114 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content. . . . Greene. 701 
Sweet Auburn I loveliest village of the])lain. Goldsmith. 659 
Sweet babe 1 true jjortrait of thy father's face. .Surrille. 118 
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the' early houTH.Brummond. 107 

Sweet day. so cool, so calm, so bright Herbert. 762 

Sweet in her irreen dell the flower of beauty Barley. 278 

Sweet is the pleasure Dwight. 715 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies Barhauld. 782 

Sweetly breathing vernal air Carew. 3 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! C. Stnifh. 42 

Sweet, sweet, sweet Hutchinson. 79 



PAGE 

Swifter far than summer's flight Shelley. 561 

Swiftly walk over the western wave Shelley. 99 

Take back into thy bosom, earth Simmons. 558 

Take, oh ! take those lips Shakespeare and Fletcher. 252 

Take the dead Christ to my chamber Howe. 810 

Tears, idle tears ! I know not what they mean. TV/?// ?/.i^o«. 566 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers LonojeHoic. 768 

Tell me not. sweet, I am unkinde Lovelace. 254 

Tell me. what is a poet's thousht Cornua'l. 695 

That so thy blessed birth. O Christ Wither. 799 

That thou "art blamed shall not be Shake<:peare. 242 

The angel of the nation's peace Griffith. 397 

The As^syrian came down like a wolf on the fold.^^;o». 3)3 

The autumn is old Hood. 92 

The awful shadow of some unseen power Shelley. 709 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Anderson. 115 

The bird that soars on highest wing ./. Montgomery. 817 

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary Motherwell. 310 

The boy stood on the burning deck Hemans. 408 

The breaking waves dashed high Hemans. S87 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by Very. 31 

The castle clock had tolled midnight Bowles. 556 

The clouds are scudding across the moon. . . .B. Taylor. 68 

The cock is crowing Wordsworth. 5 

The crimson moon uprising from the sea Thvrlow. 100 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day T. Gray. 784 

The day is ending Longfellow. 107 

The day of the Lord is at hand, at hand Kingsley. 747 

The day returns, mj^ bosom burns Burns. 314 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began. . Wordsivorth. 124 
The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is y&m. Spenser. 332 

The dreamy rhj-m'er's measured snore Landor. 694 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine Waugh. 271 

The evening comes, the fields are still M. Arnold. 746 

The flass ot war like storm-birds flv Whittier. 393 

The flower that smiles to-day ". ..Shelley. 738 

The forward violet thus did I chide Shakespeare. 243 

The forward youth that would appear Marvell. 371 

The fountains mingle with the river Shelley. 263 

The gallant youth who may have gained . . . Wordsworth. 76 

The glories of our birth and state Shirley. 763 

The glow and the glory are plighted Locker. 292 

The God of Love — aA. benedicite! Chaticer. 17 

The groves of Blarnej- they look so charming. .Millikin. 472 

The hag is astride Herrick. 461 

The half-seen memories of childish days De Vere. 163 

The harp that once through Tara's halls Moore. 383 

The heath this night must be my bed Scott. 264 

The heavens declare thy glory. Lord Watts. 840 

The increasing moonlight drifts across my hed.. Aid rich. 394 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Byron. 411 

The king sits in Dunfermline town Anonymous. 487 

The laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's gVQ&i.Nairne. 214 

The laud beyond the sea Faber. 826 

The latter rain, it falls in anxious haste Very. 92 

The lion is the desert's king Freiligrath. 57 

The Lord is uiy shepherd J. Montgovury. 838 

The lords of Thule it did not please Anonymous. 637 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing Landon. 179 

The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer. 7?o(/(/. 750 

The melancholy days are come Bryant. 84 

The mellow year is'hastin^ to its close //. Coleridge. 94 

The midges dance aboon tne burn Tannahill. 64 

The miirht of one fair face sublimes my love. .M. Annelo. 262 

The moon is up in splendor Claudius. 1(X) 

The moon was a-waning Hogg. 523 

The Moorish king rides up and down Anonymous. 510 

The mother of the muses, we are taught Landor. 733 

The mountain and the squirrel E.nerson. 726 

The mountain sheep are sweeter Peacock. 4.57 

The nniflled drum's sad roll has beat (THara. 399 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Berkeley. 388 

The night comes stealing o'er me Heine. 596 

The nightingale is mute — and so art thou Thnrlmc. 693 

The night is come, but not too soon LongfeVov: . 760 

The night is late, the house is still Palmen\ 158 

The night is made for cooling shade Trowbridge. 68 

The old house by the lindens Longfellow. 149 



ISDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



861 



PAGE 

The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they Pierjiout. :iH8 

The play iii clone — the curtain drop:? Thackeray. 785 

The poetry of earth is never dead Keats. 54 

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed. J/. Angelo. ft38 

There are ijainn for all our iop!?es E. U. Stoddard. 737 

There be lione of beauty's daughters Byron. 204 

There be those who sow beside Burton. 749 

There is a book, who runs may read Kehle. 792 

There is a land of pure delight Watts. 8^32 

There "e a good time coming, boys Mackay. 180 

There 's a grim one-horse hearse" in a jolly round . .Xoel. 540 

There was a jovial beggar Anonymous. 429 

There was a lady lived at Leith Ma<finn. 473 

Tnere was a roaring in the wind all night. . Wordsworth. 695 
There was a time when meadow, grove. . . Words icorth. 758 

There was a youthe. and a well-beloved Anonymous. 206 

There were twa brothers at the scule Anonymous. 495 

There were two sisters sat in a bour Anonymous. 498 

The royal banners forward go Fortnnatus. 800 

The S3a I the sea ! the open' sea ! Corravall. 66 

The shades of night were falling fast Longfelloio. 420 

The soote sea.son, that bud and oloom forth Surrey. 3 

The South-land boasts its teeming cane Whittier. 392 

The South-wind brings Emerson. 153 

The spacious firmament on high Addison. 793 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound Spencer. 517 

The Spice-Tr3e lives in the garden green Sterling. .56 

The splendor falls on castle walls Tennyson. 96 

The sturdy rDcic. for all his strength Anonymous. 762 

The siim;n-'r sun was sinking. . . .T Anster. 120 

The sun !iad closed the winter day Burns. 686 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright Whittier. 72 

The sun rfsesbright in France Cunningham,. 381 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day . Hunter. 387 

The thirstv earth soaks up the rain Anacreon. 64 

The twilight is sad and cloudy Longfellow. 68 

The varying year with blade and sheaf Tennyson. 222 

The wanton "troopers, riding by Marrell. 534 

The warm sun is failing : the bleak wind Shelley. 87 

The water ! the; water ! Motherwell. 26 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers Mitchell. 66 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew MacDonald. 202 

The wind, the wandering wind Hemans. 64 

The winter being over Ann Collins. 706 

The wisest of the wise Landor. 731 

The wish that of the living whole Tennyson. 764 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. . Tennyson. 630 

The world is too much with us Wordsworth. 629 

They are all gone into the world of li^ht Vaughan. 830 

They come ! the merry summer months Motherwell. 9 

They sat together, hand in hand Anonymous. 303 

They say that thou wert lovely on thv bier XValker. 774 

This Indian weed, now withered quite Anonymous. 720 

This is a spray the bird cluns: to R. Browning. 294 

This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling. . . Longfellow. 650 

This is the month, and this the happy morn Milton. 794 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign Holmes. 72 

This was the ruler of the land " Croly. 356 

This winter weather, it waxeth cold Anonymous. 429 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! Moore. 668 

Those few pale autumn flowers C. B. Southey. 83 

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not Heber. 82« 

Thou bloss.^m, bri<jrht'with autumn dew Bn/ant. 82 

Though the day of my destiny "s over Byron. 170 

Thou:rht is deeper than all speech Crunch. 715 

Thou God unsearchable, unknown Wei-ley. 851 

Thou hast beauty bright and fair Cornwall. 676 

Thou hast vowed by thy faith, my Jeanie. Cunningham. 267 

Thou hidden love of God. whose height Tersfeegen. 824 

Thou hidden source of calm repose Wesley. 824 

Thou lingering star, with lessening rav Burns. 327 

Thou little bir 1, thou dweller by the sea Dona. 70 

Thou still iinravished bride of quietness Keats. 697 

Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved Keftle. 813 

Three fishris went sailing out into the west.. .Kingsley. 512 

Three twangs of the horn Tyrwhift. 61 

Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English Daris. ;i82 

Through the night, through tlie night R. IL Stoddard. 517 
Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went. ..Morris. 187 



PAGE 

Through yonder windows stained and old Rofld. 777 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die Shelley. 672 

Ttiy bosom is endeared with all hearts Shakettpeare. 164 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream Logan. 4'.il 

Thy convert^e drew us with delight Tennyson. 167 

Tny fruit full well the schoolboy knows Elliott. :J3 

Tay tuwhits are lulled, I wot Tennyson. 101 

Tiger I Tiger I burning bright Bkike. .57 

Time is a feathered thing Anonymous. 737 

"Tis a fearful night in the winter time Eastman. .527 

"Tis all a great i*how Very. 748 

"Tis by thy strength the mountains stand Watts. 842 

"Tis death ! and peace indeed is here M. Arnold. 648 

"Tis long ago — we have toiled and traded Brown. 745 

*Tis much immortal beauty to admire Thmlow. 675 

"Tis sweet to hear the merry lark H. Coleridge. 12 

'Tis the last rose of Summer Moore. 86 

'Tis the middle watch of a Summer night Drake. .585 

To battle : to battle ! Mctherwell. 373 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Collins. 551 

To him who in the love of nature holds Bryant. 779 

Toll for the brave Cowjyer. 519 

To make my lady's obsequies Orleans. 331 

To make this condiment your poet begs ^. Smith. 463 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime Si^ncer. 170 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire Shenstone. 733 

To the lords of contention "twae Claverhouse Scott. 375 

To the sound of timbrels sweet ^rdman. 333 

To thy lover, dear, discover Crashaw. 255 

Touch us gently, Time Cornicu/l. 736 

Touseaint. the most unhappy man of men. Wordsworth. 417 

To wear the blue I think it best Anonymous. 377 

Tread softly ! bow the head Mrs. Southey. .539 

Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns Drummond. 707 

True it is that clouds and mist Anonymous. (mI 

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank Anonymous. 574 

Turn, gentle hermit of the dale Goldsmith. 212 

"Twas at the royal feast for Persia won Dryden. 066 

'Twas Commencement eve. and the ball-room. . .Strong. 295 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green Burns. 266 

'Twas in the prime of Summer time Hood. .524 

'Twas on a Monday morning Anonymous. 376 

'Twas the night before Christmas C. C. Moore. 131 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day Bn/nnt. :i32 

Two seas, amid the night Sterling. 641 

Two shall be born the whole wide world -inonymous. 2,58 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree Lonnfelhw. (U-S 

Under my window, under my window Westwood. 145 

Underneath the sod low lyiiig Fields. 553 

Under the greenwood tree .7 Shake.-i/)eare. 44 

Under yon beech-tree standing on the green. . Mere^iith. 240 

Up from the meadows rich with corn Whittier. 395 

I'pon a rock that, high and sheer Bryant. .528 

Ujion the sadness of the sea ThnJ'ter. 772 

Ui)on the white sea-sand Brown . 740 

Up the airy mountain \llinnham. 5JKJ 

I'p the streets of Aberdeen Whittier. (135 

I p to her chamber- window \ldrich. 284 

\\) to the throne of God is borne Word.'^uorth. S15 

Uj) I up. my friend I and quit your books.. Wordsworth. 715 

Victorious men of earth, no more Shirley. 6.50 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night Whitman. 397 

Vital spark of heavenly flame Poji^. 825 

Voice of Summer, keen and shrill Bennett 102 

Wail for Difdalns, all that is fairest Sterling. .VIS 

Watchman, tell us of the night Bowring. 808 

Weak and irresolute is man! Cotrj)€r. 741 

We an' born, we laugh, we weep Cornwall. 769 

We are the sweet flowiTS Hunt. 35 

We are the voices of the wandering wind E. Arnntd. 767 

Weave no more the marriage chain Corn wall. .5.53 

We count the broken lyres that rest ffolm&s. .5<'i2 

We dance on hills above the wind \nonymous. .57S 

We dined. A fish from the river beneath . . Anonymous. 2SS 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower Burns. 2S 



<o )r 



862 



lyDEX OF FIRST FIXES. 



PAGE 

Weep ye no more, sad fountains Dowland. 765 

Wee Willie Winkie rins thro" theto^\•n TT'. Miller. 115 

We have been friends together Mrs. Xorton. 171 

We heard it calling, clear and low Locker. 16 

Welcome, maids of honor Herrick. 29 

Welcome, welcome, do I sins Broicne. 261 

Well! if the bard was weather-wise S. T. Colendge. 726 

We parted in silence, we parted by night Crawford. 300 

Were I but his o\\vl wife Downing. 272 

W^ sat by the fisher's cottage Heine. 641 

We sat w'ithin the farmhouse old Longfellow. 168 

We stood upon the ragged rocks Glazier. 169 

We talked with open heart, and tongue Wordswoi^th. 716 

We the fairies, blithe and antic Randolph. 579 

We watched her breathing thro' the night Hood. 541 

We were crowded in the cabin Fields. 146 

We were not many, we who stood Hoffman. 392 

We wreathed about our darling's head Mi'S. Lowell. 150 

What constitutes a state "; Jones. 418 

What dire ofEencefrom amorous causes springs . . .Pope. 433 
What is your substance whereof you are. . .Skakespeare. 165 

What might be done if men were wise Mackay. 182 

What needs- my Shakespeare for his honored. . . .Milton. 678 

What pleasures have great princes Byrd. 702 

What shall I do with all the daj's and hours Keinble. 281 

"V\1iat 's hallowed ground '? Has earth a clod. . Campbell. 755 

What stands upon the highland ? Jones. 99 

What 's this vain world to me ? Xairne. 826 

What voice, what harp, are those we hear Goethe. 694 

When all thy mercies, O my God Addison. 843 

When banners are waving Anonymous. 373 

When cats run home, and light is come Tennyson. 101 

When chapman billies leave the street Burns. 4.57 

When, cruel fair one. I am slain Stanley. 257 

"SMien Delia on the plain appears Lyttelton. 249 

WTien descends on the Atlantic Longfellow. 69 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view Canning. 462 

When first thou camest. gentle, shy. and fond . .Soi'ton. 123 
When first thy eies unveil, give thy "soul leave. . Yaiighan. 789 

When Freedom from her mountain height Drake. 391 

When gathering clouds around I view. y. Grant. 810 

When I beneath the cold, red earth Mothertrell. 560 

When I consider how my liirht is spent Milton. 742 

"^lien I do count the clock that tells Shakespeare. 163 

When in disgrace with fortune Shakespeare. 164 

When in thechronicle of wasted time Shakespeare. 243 

TNTien Israel, of the Lord beloved Scoff. 814 

When I survey the bright HaMngton. 761 

When Love, with unconfined wings Lovelace. 255 

When maidens such as Hester die C. Lamb. 541 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young Collins. 671 

When o'er the mountain steeps E. T. Cooke. 50 

When on the breath of autumn bree/e M. Howitt. 83 

When rising from the bed of death Addison. 828 

When shall we three meet again ? .Anonymous. 16;3 

When Sol did cast no light. Being darkened. J./?ort.y.'«0!/.!?. 216 

When the angels all are singing Breton. 821 

When the baby died, we said Perry. 158 

When the British warrior queen Cowper. 355 

When the corn-fields and meadows Anonymovs. 126 

When the grass shall cover me Anonymous. 324 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's. .Swinburne. 4 

When the hours of day are numbered Longfellow. 772 

When the humid shadows hover Kinney. 62 

When the merry lark doth gild Cormcall. 108 

When the sheep are in the fauld Barnard. 316 

When thou art near me Lady Scott. 258 

When to any saint I pray Parsons. 177 

When to the sessions of sweet silent Shakespeare. 164 

When we two parted Byron. 300 

When whispermg strains with creeping wind Strode. 669 



PAGE 

When winter winds are piercing chill Longfellow . 106 

When you are dead some day, my dear ^. Popes. 7S0 

Where are the swallows fled ? A. A. Procter. 103 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go . Clough. 648 

Where shall we make her grave Hemans. 5c3 

Where sinless rivers weep I<oss€tti. 5G2 

Where the remote Bermudas ride Marvell. 814 

Whether is better, the gift or the donor ? Emerson. 711 

Which I wish to remark B. Harte. 482 

While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels . Leon idas. 120 

While thee I seek, protecting power Willicuns. 820 

While the moon, with sudden gleam Anonymous. 102 

Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping Simonides. 141 

Whither 'midst falling dew Bryant. 42 

VTho best can paint tli' enamelled robe Thurlou'. 695 

Who fears to speak of 2sinety-eight Digram. 413 

Who gave thee, O Beauty Emerson. 708 

Who is Sylvia ? what is she Shake-^peare. 675 

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. .Lytton. 323 

Who would true valor see Bunyan. 420 

Why didst thou promise such a heauteovLS . .Shakespeare. 165 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Herrick. 29 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover Suckling. 285 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing Sewall. 740 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladye Scott. 238 

Why would'st thou leave me.'O gentle child . . .Hemans. 142 

Widow machree, it 's no wonder^you frown Lover. 290 

"\^'illow, in thy breezy moan Hemans. 52 

Will you hear a Spanish lady Anonymous. 209 

Willy "s rare, and Willy 's fair Anonymous. 491 

Wisdom and spirit of the universe Wordsuorth. 109 

Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor Tennyson. 166 

With deep affection Prout. 664 

AVith due condescension, I'd call your Anonymous. 470 

With fingers weary and worn Hood. 5S8 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st Sidney. 245 

With one black shadow at its feet Tennyson. 302 

With one consent let all the earth Tate and Brady. 842 

With sacrifice, before the rising morn Wordsworth. S29 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn Leyden. 9 

With trembling fingers did we weave Tennyson. 166 

Woi-d was brought to the Danish king Xorton. 517 

Wonldst thou heare what man can say ? Jonson. 554 

Wouldst thou view the lion's den ? Pringle. 58 

Would you be young again *? Xairne. 783 

Would you hear of So. old-fashioned sea-fight. JMiitman. 404 
Wreathe the bowl T. Moore. 172 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around Burns. 32G 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers T. Gray. 137 

Ye genii of the nation Thackeray. 474 

Ye gentlemen of England Parker. 407 

Ye golden lamps of neaven. farewell Doddridge. 832 

Ye have been fresh and green Herrick. 81 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners Channing. 181 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Spenser. 334 

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light Marvell. 252 

Ye mariners of England Campbell. 403 

Ye midnight shades, o'er nature spread Mallett. 546 

Ye njmphs of Solyma. begin the song Poj^e. 797 

Yes f hope may with my strong desire M. Angefo. 245 

Yes, I do love "thee well, my child T. Miller. 131 

Yet once more. O ye laurels, and once more .Mil/on. 542 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon. ..ff. Browning. 400 

You may give over plough, boys Dobell. 532 

You meaner beauties of the night Wot ton. 252 

You must wake and call me early Tennyson. 529 

You needn't be trying to comfort me Vandegrift. 116 

Young Ben he was a nice young man Hood. 406 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen ba\vn Lover. 2-38 

You 're my friend R. Browning. '141 



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